


Ad Augusta Per Angusta - To High Places By Narrow Roads

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Series: A Stitch In Time [1]
Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Razielim have been extinct for a thousand years;  but time means little to the Soul Reaver.  What would Raziel give for the chance to save his Clan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Acta, Non Verba--Action, Not Words

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of explanation: this was originally written for a long-running crossover RPG called Multiverse Haven (now sadly defunct). The basic premise of the game was that characters had been pulled from multiple worlds and marked as Chosen, in order to eventually restore a dying multiverse. There may be occasional references to characters, magic systems and some borrowed vampire terminology from other canon sources.

“No, I do not see it,” Kain said, squinting downward.

They stood together at the windswept top of a very tall, black, strangely-spiked tower. The cracking dome of Hylden energies was nearby, and the territory all around the tower had been laid waste -- the energies of Haven sapped to the very bone. A handful of demonic guard patrols moved like ants far below, terrorizing the few placeholders who wandered the crumbling streets.

Kain had obtained armor and clothing, as well as a number of useful, mundane items. The merchants of Haven seemed to have some protection against theft of magical objects, and so Kain had acquired but few of those. His efforts towards reconnaissance and assembling a stronger defense had so far absorbed nearly every moment not spent feeding. The strong breeze fluttered at a corner of a large map of the area, which was pinned to the rooftop with stones.

"There," Raziel said, pointing. His eyes, raptor-keen, had picked out an area that shouldered up next to the Hylden's warded fortress, where the energies had twisted strangely. Crumbling like all the rest of the region, the decay of *this* particular area had somehow undermined the foundation of the Hylden fortifications, to their detriment. The demon patrols had not noticed the weakness--or if they had, their limited intelligence had not led them to take any action on it.

"See it? Just north of blue-painted building, near the dead tree. A small advance force might be able to penetrate there."

Kain’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the place. He inclined his head slightly, considering the terrain. “And t’would have to be an advance force, for without a phalanx behind it to draw fire, the unit would be subject to bombardment from those crags... there.” Kain was painfully aware that he and Raziel might literally be the only allied combatants on the field, depending on the support that could be mustered, and the Powers’ whim. Kain sighed, pinning the fluttering edge of the map underfoot. “I begin to think it unlikely that the gate can be closed from this side, at all.”

"If only we could muster more warriors, then we might stand a chance," Raziel agreed, frustration lending an edge to his words. "But the Chosen are too fractious, the Powers too arrogant, and the placeholders? Far too feeble." He growled low in his throat.

Kain tilted his head back, idly tracing the patterns of the arching spires that adorned the top of the tower. “Placeholders could be of some use as bait. If one were to lead a contingent of them back to Nosgoth... tell me, were you able to explore the Hylden’s defenses there?” Raziel must have viewed them, to some extent, when he’d retrieved Kain.

"Somewhat, though I was a bit ... rushed," Raziel admitted. "They are formidable. In Meridian they are so firmly entrenched that it would take a true army to shake them loose, and a well-warded army at that. In the outlying areas ... less so, though the effects of their presence have begun to make themselves known." He had not forgotten that unnatural draining of the land itself, seen through Taiki's eyes--there was no doubt that the Hylden were at the center of it, bloated spiders, spinning their webs ever further.

“There, at least, the Hylden have not the advantage of the energies they wring from Haven,” Kain pointed out. This world, built of easily-manipulated power, had fallen prey to the Hylden most easily. Any true world, even Nosgoth, would perforce crumble much more slowly. “Even a small force might stand a better chance in Nosgoth.” Kain’s eyes slid to Raziel. “And there, the possibility exists of raising the necessary manpower.”

"Raising in what sense?" Raziel said in puzzlement, missing Kain's hidden meaning. "Surely you cannot think that a peasant army would stand a chance against the likes of demons--or allow themselves to be led by vampires, even if they were?"

Kain shook his head. He disliked broaching the subject -- Kain had so often failed to create fledglings himself.... “You once mentioned that you were part of a clan, did you not?”

His shoulders stiffened as Raziel turned to face Kain fully. "That clan does not exist," he said sharply. "Not in your time." _Nor any other ...._ He bit back the bitter words. Surely Kain realized that much, at least? Unless ... "You wish me to create new fledglings?"

Kain watched the reaction carefully. Something had happened to Raziel’s clan... but then, it also seemed that Raziel knew the means of siring fledglings. “Would that prove difficult?” he inquired.

"It could be done--*if* I were willing to do so. I am not," Raziel said coldly. "Even if I were, it would be years--decades even--before they would be of any more use than your average conscripted peasant. They would be nothing but meat for the demons."

Kain grit his teeth briefly. He could hardly force Raziel into siring... there would be little purpose in doing so, in any case, if Raziel’s fledglings were no stronger than Kain had been, as a neonate. Deep in thought, he idly adjusted the buckles on one bracer. “What, then, of your clan? They could be retrieved from the future using the timestreaming chamber -- and brought into my present.”

"That is not possible," Raziel snapped without thinking. "You cannot just yank an entire *clan* from--" He stopped short, a revelation striking him down like a lightning bolt.

His clan was dead. Wiped from the face of Nosgoth.

With the timestreaming chamber, one could travel forward--and back--in time.

His clan *had* no future. If taken in those last days before their extinction ... and preserved in another time ...

Could the Razielim truly live, even prosper, in the past? Not in the time of which Kain spoke, of course--that would preclude the Empire, and create another paradox. But what of another, distant enough in time and space to ensure their safety?

Turning on his heel, Raziel stared blindly at the noxious green wards of the Hylden's fortress, ignoring Kain entirely as he tried to absorb the ramifications of this new, unexpected possibility.

Kain watched silently for a few long moments. “And why not?” he prompted at last. “If the chambers have not been destroyed in your time, then they should be accessible.” ‘Should’ being the operative; Kain had never actually used one of the chambers successfully. That damned, demonic Power with its false Reaver had halted Kain, when he’d tried.

"It might--be possible," Raziel whispered, still without looking at him. "It might be possible, and if they could *live* ..."

The notion struck a certain amount of unease -- would Raziel’s sire be among that clan? Fledglings Raziel had raised? “You believe they would be an effective fighting force, then?” Kain asked, unwilling to permit the subject to drift too far afield.

Taken by surprise at the sheer absurdity of the question, Raziel blinked--then gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Effective? Oh yes--there are none more effective in Nosgoth, Kain. Of that you have my word."

Kain nodded, considering. He disliked the necessity of asking, but... “What manner of calamity befell them, precisely?” If Raziel’s clan had perished in the effort to accomplish something -- something that was vital to the flow of history -- then removing them to another era might well be problematic. If they had fallen to a natural disaster, however, or even better still simply disappeared, Kain saw little reason not to utilize them now.

Raziel's face was stony. He had been expecting the question, but that did not make it any easier to answer. Not when it was his sire and his clan's killer asking it.

"They were ... hunted down by the other vampire clans, after their lord was executed. There were no survivors."

Save Raziel, of course, Kain thought. He shrugged slightly. “Then in the chaos, no one will notice if they simply vanish from your era. They’re there, we need them, let us go retrieve them.” Kain crouched to remove the stones from his map, and began rolling it into a neat tube. “Would you prefer to collect a pair of return amulets from the Powers, or shall I?”

Raziel raised an eyebrow at Kain's sudden decision. "You overstep yourself, Kain. I will not take them from one killing field just to have them die in another. If you are to have your army, I require certain ... assurances."

“And which assurances those?” Kain asked, tapping the end of the tube to even it, before slipping it into a scroll case. Did Raziel have doubts about his clan’s abilities to unseat the Hylden?

"I require your oath, Kain. That if I bring my clan from their time in order to fight for you, that after the battles are won, that you will aid me in taking them to an era in which they can live unmolested. Swear to me that however long your life, regardless of my eventual fate, you will never forsake them." Raziel's voice was iron-hard, uncompromising. "If you do--then you may have your army."

Kain considered Raziel’s words seriously. “You have my oath that I shall look after them, and never forsake them. But while they may inhabit any given era for many years... they may not remain there indefinitely.” Kain could not, for example, permit the clan to cross into an era in which Raziel might exist, after all. Perhaps they could eventually be moved to the future, or...

Raziel eyed him narrowly. "What do you mean by that, precisely?" He was long past trusting Kain on such matters ...

“When would you move them to?” Kain asked. “A time and a place they might thrive... and yet not interfere with your own rebirth. If the distant past, they might live until the Sarafan purges of the early 400’s.” Thinking rapidly, Kain removed a writing utensil from a dimensional pocket, and crouched down once more with the long scroll case. He drew a line down its length, notating some few of the major events in Nosgoth’s history, including his own misguided time-traveling. “Tell me... could they be taken to any part of Nosgoth’s future? Sometime after their lord perished.”

"It might be possible, but--Nosgoth is dying," Raziel reminded him. "Is *still* dying, even in my time, the Pillars still broken. Until the balance can be restored, any future time is likely to be bleak at best--demon-infested at worse." He crouched down, opposite of Kain, and touched a talon to the beginning of that line. "The past, on the other hand, is longer than you think--perhaps they can be taken to a time long before the Sarafan. Perhaps ... even the time of the Ancients, or before. Some remote place, near enough to humans to survive, somehow ..."

Kain frowned thoughtfully. “I believe that the timestreaming chambers were crafted as adjuncts to the pillar of time. The earliest it should be possible to move... would be shortly after the pillars were first crafted, to seal the Hylden away.” Kain paused, sitting back on his heels, and touched a finger at an arbritary mark, just past the end of the case. “How long ago were the pillars raised?”

"That I do not know," Raziel admitted. It made sense, though, that the power of the timestreaming chambers would not extend past the power of the Pillar that fuelled them. "Only Janos--or perhaps Vorador--would truly know, I think."

And Kain had been unable to locate Vorador. “Do we seek them first, then? For if the early era of the pillars is a short span, less than a thousand years perhaps, your clan might not be safe there -- nor unobtructive of history -- for long.”

"Any time is longer than they have now," Raziel said grimly. "And seeking Janos or Vorador in this time is problematic. We might be best served by simply seeing how far the timestreaming chamber will take us into Nosgoth's history--and then making our plans from there."

Kain nodded. “Very well -- such an excursion might be swiftest, in any case.” Once they reached the past, a little time and a full view of the night’s stars should reveal how long ago they’d been sent, and how safe it would be to leave Raziel’s kin there. And... Kain did have to admit a certain interest in the Ancients themselves -- their architecture was so magnificent, how glorious would it be to view them in person? “You and I should both equip ourselves as thoroughly as possible. And we must still seek... permission to utilize the CDC’s portals.”

Raziel growled a little at that, but nodded. "Unfortunately, you are right. I think we should tell them only that we wish to return to Nosgoth, and naught of what we intend there. I do not know if they would attempt to prevent us, or if it is beyond their concern--but I do not want to take the risk."

“They may be receptive to the argument of closing the portal from the other side,” Kain stated. In the Powers’ view, it was probably unlikely that either of the vampires could cause further trouble, no matter when or where they went. Still, Raziel did have a good point. “Do you prefer to approach the Powers, or shall I? Or both of us?”

"How much time will you need to prepare?" Given the new inhabitant of Raziel's castle, he supposed he should be gracious enough to let Dio know of his coming absence ...

“A few hours, methinks, unless the negotiations with the Powers drag on.” Kain said. He should be able to obtain a few more magical devices in that time. “I will speak with them. Shall we meet back here... at moonset, near dawn?”

"I think I will need at least a day--but no more." Raziel sat back on his heels, and pondered their makeshift timeline. "I wonder--if we do encounter the Ancients, whether we would be treated as interlopers or kin?" The Ancient vampires did not seem to be as predatory as those sired by Kain--but then, Raziel only had Janos for an example. Who knew what the Ancients were truly like?

Kain raised an eyebrow. “So it is true, then? The Ancients are the oldest of vampires? And... Janos is one amongst them?”

"They were--the oldest that I know of, at least. Their immortality and blood thirst was born of a curse, however, and not their own innate natures," Raziel replied. "Janos was the last. He was ... a noble spirit, and undeserving of his fate."

Despite the urgency of the mission, Kain could not help but sit and listen, and ask to hear more, the faintest edge of regret perhaps touching his tone. He’d never had a chance to meet the famed Ancients; they sounded so different from the common human portrayal. It would be an astounding experience, to actually meet those creatures of legend.


	2. Audere est facere - To dare is to do

Now better equipped, but far more uneasy, Kain awaited Raziel at the entrance to the CDC.  His worry was caught and magnified upon the aura of the creature waiting nearby.   As old as Tarrant's aura was, Raziel's was still older -- but whereas the elder vampire possessed an aura like the rise of a black sun, the Power's was far more... insidious. 

Raziel was not going to be well-pleased.

It did not take long before Raziel arrived. Touching down in a flurry of wingbeats, his expression was both annoyed and wary as he took in the Power's presence.

"Kain. What has transpired?"

Kain folded his arms, though his eyes traced Raziel's descent. He did not suppose he would ever find the power of that backwinging anything less than breathtaking to behold. "Taiki was willing to permit us voyage," Kain stated, offering up one of the blue medallions. "Provided we accept a chaperone."

Kain plucked at the fine strand of connection that linked their two minds. _What think you of the chances of rendering him unconscious and binding him here?_ Kain whispered experimentally.

That creature was a tall man, slender, refined and handsome, who carried himself with easy elegance. His clothes were simple but well made, unadorned but clearly expensive. A thigh-length tunic of fine silk brushed the top of his soft leather boots, accentuating his height; it was midnight blue, the color of evening. His trousers were black.

His honey-colored hair was soft, caught back in a simple gold clip at the nape of his neck. At his hip hung a slender sword with a heavily embroidered sheath; on the other side, a pistol tucked into his belt.

His aura was cold, cold, cold, like the densest arctic ice. It could even be felt, a chill that lingered on the air like cloying tendrils, teasing even at Kain's skin.

But he waited pleasantly. He was a very civilised monster, clothed in human trappings, though his skin was as dead white as Kain's own and his chest did not rise and fall as a living, breathing man's would have.

And, as if he had heard Kain, his beautiful mouth curved in a gentle-seeming smile. But he still said nothing.

Raziel blinked--but otherwise gave no outward sign of the unexpected whisper-thought.

 _Slim at best. He is a Power, and even were we to prevail, we are unlikely to do so without alerting the others._ Without changing expression, Raziel said pleasantly, "So the Powers deem we have a stronger hand upon our leashes, Tarrant?"

 _Then this may significantly complicate matters,_ Kain replied, disappointed. But he could see few solutions but to proceed.

"Taiki, in his great fondness for you, prevailed upon me to accompany you in his stead," Tarrant stated quite agreeably.

To both of them, he said, "The inconvenience is regrettable, but the inconvenience that necessitates this trip is also."

"Were there any other conditions set upon our going?" Raziel asked, burying his reservations deep. Tarrant's inclusion could severely hamper their plans, if the Power decided to object to them.

"No," said Kain, shaking his head. "Tarrant will require a degree of leeway, in order to maintain his strength -- but otherwise, he will evidently provide the... conditions when applicable." Once that degree of leeway was established, Kain could perhaps begin encroaching upon it, weakening the Power by degrees. He adjusted the buckles on one bracer. This need not be a catastrophe, still. He nodded towards the CDC, and its guarded entrance. "Shall we?"

Tarrant knew his unwilling companions well-- they were as cruel, predatory, and willful as he. They would exploit his weaknesses, even if it might sabotage their own advantage.

Well, he'd known a man inclined to the same sort of shenanigans, once.

"After you," he said courteously.

Giving the third member of their little group a last suspicious glance, Raziel shook his head and headed for the gate of the CDC, growling a little under his breath. At least with a Power in their group, there would be none of the placeholder idiocy he had suffered through when leaving with Astronema...

Indeed, the placeholders scrambled to assist. One led the little party through the guard posts and into the building proper, then to the elevators.

Kain barred fangs briefly at the sight of the small metal box, but entered after a moment, steeling himself against the discomfort of being in a confined space with an unknown entity... even if his claws could now punch through most standard sheetmetal.

Tarrant went in after them. He didn't seem to take up much space, slender as he was.

Raziel didn't like it any better than Kain, but he was at least familiar with the necessity of the elevator. Tucking his wings in tight, he entered, moving as far to one corner as possible--and not incidentally keeping his wings and back away from the other two predators there.

The elevator ride was brief. Once out, Raziel headed down the maze of hallways towards the massive portals of the CDC.

Kain followed closely, pausing only a moment as they rounded a corner into a very strange room indeed. One side had no wall -- was instead open to some huge, central chamber, through which lading platforms moved unsupported. On one wall was the portal -- a presently empty ring of engraved symbols, taller than most buildings within any age of Nosgoth he had known.

"Set it to my era, east of Vasserbunde, near Uschtenheim," Kain instructed.

The placeholders obeyed, and the huge ring flickered, then cleared, displaying a bright and sunlit clearing.

"Night," Tarrant ordered. The portal flickered and cleared again, now displaying the clearing at the appropriate time.

With a last reflexive check of weapons and armor (and medallion), Raziel walked to the portal, and stepped through, taking point.

Tarrant might be a Power, but Raziel was an elder and lord of his clan, and Nosgoth was *his* world. He was not about to hang back and let another lead.

Kain considered gesturing Tarrant to the middle -- the most protected position in a march, but also the place reserved for slaves. On the other hand... the Power should be able to care for himself, should he not? With a faint shrug, Kain stalked through the portal.

There was the curious disassociation he recalled, and then the world opened up around him. Nosgoth was exquisitely real, complete -- the scents and colors were all so very much more vibrant than anyplace in Haven. And the feel of reconnection, of some unknown and unnamed link snapping back into place, felt so very right....

Kain drew a deep breath for the pure pleasure of it, then turned to Raziel. "By those mountains, I think us no more than ten miles from the oracle's caverns."

Tarrant followed them. He showed no trepidation, though the act of moving into a world without fae would once have meant his undoing.

Here, the abilities that he had learned as a Power would have to suffice. He could work the air, and the earth, and with more difficulty water. A store of coldfire had been given to him, to sustain his existence.

But, even now, he risked his existence. Were the bindings placed upon him to fail... he would unravel.

But he showed nothing of his own discomfort.

He stood near to them, and surveyed both his companions and his surroundings, and waited.

Also breathing deep, Raziel looked into the clean skies of Nosgoth with pleasure. He did not have the primeval connection to Nosgoth as Kain did as the Scion of Balance; but that did not mean he did not feel the *rightness* of returning to his proper place.

"If we fly--" Then he stopped short, reminded of their unwelcome third. "Tarrant. Do you have any abilities that might speed your travel? Shapeshifting or the like?"

Kain watched Tarrant's entry. The man's finery was, oddly, not poorly suited to the thick vegetation all around. This part of the forest was connected by a spit to the Termogent forest, that dread swamp of Vorador's making, and even these trees had some strangeness to them -- moss hung heavily, and the air was sweet with the scent of healthy decay and renewal.

Still, Tarrant's clothing did not seem well-suited to a few hours' march through uncharted wilderness. If he could not fly... well. Tarrant was not a large man; it could be that Kain's wolf form was large enough to carry him. Provided that Kain could bring himself to permit the Power such familiarity, of course.

"I can fly," Tarrant said pleasantly. "And shapeshift. You need not worry about leaving me behind."

Was that irony in his silky tone?

"Very well." He turned to Kain. "I do not remember--is there a beacon near the Oracle caves, or would it be easier to follow me?" He remembered the difficulties the younger vampire had encountered on their last trip, and did not know if they would be repeated now that a change was no longer imminent.

Kain considered. "There is not one closer to the caverns than we are, now," he decided. "I will gain elevation, and accompany you."

Looking to Tarrant's faintly amused visage, Kain added, "The last time I was there, the caverns were inhabited by werewolves, acid-spitting slimes, and brigands, amongst other beasts. I advise you follow at some distance."

With that, Kain dissolved. A myriad of small, winged forms fled from his body, as if he had fractured into a thousand tiny pieces. Finding their way with high-pitched cries, the flock of bats spiraled upwards, all black bodies and sharp little fangs.

Tarrant's form seemed to dissolve like viscous, flame-licked liquid, running and shifting until a great black winged, mad-eyed... thing... rose from the ground in its place.

It soared into the sky on huge dark wings, difficult to see save for the momentary blotting of stars where its hard-to-define bulk obscured them.

Raziel watched the transformation, impressed and somewhat dismayed in spite of himself. Such a creature could hardly go unnoticed, even in Nosgoth's skies! Still ... most of the lands they were to cross were wild, with only isolated hamlets carved out of the forests. With any luck, the only humans that marked their passing would simply cower behind their walls and doors, and hope the monsters passed them by.

Lacking any ability--and any need--for such a dramatic transformation as the others, Raziel simply unfolded his wings, and leaped into the sky. With steady wing-beats, he soared above the trees, and headed unerringly towards the mountain caves that contained Moebius' timestreaming chambers.

The dense cloud of bats kept close to Raziel's form, fluttering around him. The flight to the cliffs housing the timestreaming chambers was not long, even fighting the buffeting winds that hissed through the dense branches below, and tore the drifting clouds into ribbons above.

'Round a jagged outcropping of mountainside, the caverns came into sight -- moonlit limestone terraces speckled with dark openings. In Raziel's time, most of those entrances would be sealed off, but now, the caverns were a labyrinth of corridors and chambers. The bats peeled off from the flightpath, winging their way to one of the passages in particular. They swirled to land, albeit somewhat clumsily, atop a high ledge.

The dark beast that was Tarrant fractured into oily, batlike wisps, and followed suit.

Raziel did not recognize the spot Kain had chosen--but then, he had never visited these chambers in this era. Following the others, he touched down in front of the cave mouth, and waited for Kain and Tarrant to reform.

"A higher entrance?" he asked Kain, once the younger vampire was whole once more.

"Indeed," said Kain. "Watch your step closely whilst within. I exterminated the inhabitants of this section decades ago, but over time..." Kain cast his hand up, summoning a small ball of softly glowing light. The whisp darted into the dark opening, illuminating first roughly-quarried limestone, then, further inside, masonwork.

 _Will you take the rear? I'd not have Tarrant falling behind in this era,_ Kain Whispered, then spoke aloud. "Watch for shadows that do not flee the light, for they often harbor incorporeal demonkin. They dissipate easily enough before an enchanted blade, but are pestersome to deal with."

The interior of the passage was chill and echoing, and sloped sharply downwards.

Tarrant's vision was much like that which Raziel had experienced through Taiki... though they did not know that yet. What was immediately visible was superimposed with what was not-- unnatural beings, power, auras. The concepts of fae were different here, but the life force, the magical energy, of places and beings, was not.

"Lead on," he said simply, pausing only to flick an imaginary mote of dust from his elegant sleeve.

Nodding as if in agreement, Raziel fell to the rear of their group as if that had been his intention all along. As they entered the tunnel, he drew his sabre. It was a lesser blade, but still enchanted--and it held his materia, which drew on his strength far less than the wraithblade did.

This close to the surface, the tunnel was dry and dusty, with the occasional weedy tuft clinging grimly to the begrimed stone. The further they descended, however, the more necessary Kain's summoned light became. Night-adapted vampires were, but even they needed *some* light to function ...

The tunnel split in places, branching off to rooms further within. Kain unerringly chose one path or another out of the possibilities. The ground was slippery in places with collected ice, and slime tracks or pawprints crossed the dust in others.

Kain turned at a sharp corner. The floor of this tunnel was dark and glistening, and strongly inclined. "Wait here a moment," Kain said, and crouched low before stepping into the corridor. Boots scraping harshly on the black ice, Kain slid rapidly down the incline.

Midway down, there was a click, and a massive axe blade swung from the wall, the wind of its passage ruffling Kain's hair as it hissed overhead. In the same moment, the patch of clear ground at the bottom of the slope seemed to flicker and dissipate, revealing the darkness of a pit and the ice-rimmed points of steel spikes.

Kain crashed into the trap... as a thick roll of fog, misting around the clustered stakes. The fog drew itself up, reforming off to the side of the trap, where the passage continued. Kain drove his talons between the stones of the wall, anchoring himself, and reached out a taloned hand to catch those behind, should it prove necessary. "Keep low," he warned.

Tarrant drew his sword. Silver-blue light blazed, painful to look at but serviceable at illuminating their environs; wispy white flames, tinged with cool blue and violet, rose from the blade's surface.

No heat emanated from it, however; the cold around them just seemed to deepen.

And, though he seemed effete, his footing was sure. He waved off the hand.

Raziel raised an eyebrow at the axeblade, but followed once Tarrant was safely at the end of the corridor. Unlike Kain, he did not slide down the ice; as he walked, his cloven feet carved great gouges in the slippery surface, even causing the ice to crack at times. Guaranteed ample traction, he ducked easily under the axe-blade, sidestepping the befanged pit.

"Charming decor," he remarked.

"Be glad we are not taking the long route," Kain said wryly, not moving out of the way until Raziel had found solid ground. "How the builders arranged to power so many moving traps is beyond me." Kain lead the way out once more, passing through rooms decorated with oddly-lifelike statues, carved from ice and stone. In one place, an entire wall of winged, angelic engravings gazed down calmly upon the little group -- most of the ancient figures had long ago been defaced, their feathered wings half-chipped away or crossed by deep gouges.

The system of caverns came to an end at a great jagged hole in the brick floor. Kain, unhesitating, dropped through. The light followed, revealing a fall of some twenty feet that led into a far larger, finer room below. Kain's fall splintered some of the mural tiles underfoot -- they depicted a golden figure-eight, half-twisted upon itself.

Tarrant followed. He landed lightly, disturbing only dust, and looked around.

"Geothermal," he murmured. "There is a current of magma, boiling liquid rock, deep beneath this mountain, where the earth's crust heaves and lifts. Should these traps be enspelled, and the triggers activated when one trespasses -- perhaps a ward on the floor, or a pressure point -- the energy can be used to power the mechanical elements driving the axe, the spikes, the illusion. The spells can be powered so long as the earth's energy continues to flow beneath this place."

He hated these things, but he kept the sourness out of his voice. At least it wasn't a bloody volcano.

Dropping down from above, wings spread to slow his descent, Raziel was reminded of the times he had been forced to climb and glide and climb again about such mazes as a wraith. Shaking away the memories, he nodded at Tarrant's explanation. "I have seen such liquid fire, deep within the earth," he remarked. Though he was not at all sure he believed Tarrant's talk of 'crusts' and movement.

Glancing downward and recognizing the Time symbol, he scanned the chamber--but found no familiar machinery. There were glyphs upon the walls, and battered, defaced murals such as he had seen elsewhere, repeating the story of the Ancients and the Hylden. Archways led to other darkened corridors, supported by pillars made of fitted stone.

"Aye," said Kain, "molten rock is common enough, both aboveground and below... but is it not simply a manifestation of the domain of samalanders, djinn, and the like?"

These rooms were echoing, the air strangely stale, the dust layered and untouched. It seemed undisturbed since the last time Kain was here, some decades ago. They passed through several more vaulted chambers, and then halted at a massive bronze door. Kain checked to be certain the two other men were well-clear, then drew the Reaver from its dimensional pocket.

It slid home into a slot between the doors with a hollow click, and the massive portals slid aside.

The room within was round and very large, somewhat like an auditorium, with tiered levels rising up to a presently-empty portal upon the top terrace. A massive device hung silently from the ceiling. Strange machinery and dials were located upon one wall. "Ah, it remains untouched," Kain said, striding across the wide floor to where a dusty book lay upon one of the terraced levels.

"Such creatures probably congregate near magma," Tarrant stated quietly. "Instead of the other way around. If this world is like most, molten rock flows in ceaseless currents beneath the crust, and in some places breaks through. The energy that it contains is the raw energy of the earth itself."

Once they entered the room, his attention was dragged towards that massive device, and then those clockwork mechanisms nearby.

But he followed Kain. Another visit might simply be in order later.

Raziel took in the chamber, as yet unscarred by his future battle with an elder Kain. Glancing curiously at the tome Kain had picked up, he headed for the weighty dials used to activate and manipulate the portal. "These are the key to creating the portals," he said, touching them lightly. "But I do not know the intracacies of them, nor how to aim for a certain era." His previous time travels had been haphazard at best, following in the tracks of others ... Kain and Moebius.

"Does that tome hold some knowledge we can use?"

"It ought," Kain admitted, spreading the text open on the stone staircase before himself and Raziel both. The tome was very old, worn and waterstained, the pages brittle and yellowed. "I retrieved it from Vorador's libraries; by now those archives are likely half-sunk beneath the swamp." Kain carefully turned over pages, passing over dozens of diagrams and sheets of dense notation. _It is fortunate indeed that damned Power did not abscond with the book, when it abducted me from this place._ Kain Whispered, then spoke aloud after a moment. "What think you of this combination of settings?" Selecting an exact date would be difficult... but setting all the dials to their beginnings, as noted in the diagram, seemed as if it should prove useful.

Tarrant watched those pages turning quite intently, his sharp silver gaze storing away everything that passed before it.

Truth be told, Raziel's attention was more upon Kain and Tarrant than the book. Tarrant because he did not trust the psychic vampire, and wished there was some way to keep the Power away from the knowledge they were trying to glean, and Kain ... because this was, in a way, the beginning of Kain's quest for knowledge. A quest which would come full circle millennia from now, in this very chamber.

Kain himself had said it-- _'When I first stole into this chamber centuries ago, I did not fathom the true power of knowledge.'_ Now ... everything and nothing had changed.

"It is a possibility," Raziel finally allowed. "Though not one without risk. What of these glyphs? Might they not provide some clue as to the demarcation of time?"

Kain thought on that. "You have the right of it," he admitted. "They would seem to modify the lever settings, in some manner." Kain had only a tenuous grasp of what the ancient runes might mean -- the glyphs were clearly the antiquated inscriptions of the ancients, for it seemed they were drawn as if by a three-fingered hand.

Tarrant said nothing. He watched. If he knew what those runes meant, if he had read about such things before he had come here -- and he was no fool, to step into such a situation without thorough research -- he shared none of it.

He would assist them in the extermination of the Hylden... but for the moment, he was disinclined to grant them any sort of favor.

No, he reasoned, currying favor with them now would grant him nothing save their own contemptuous use of him.

Raziel hummed thoughtfully under his breath as he scrutinized first the tome, then the machinery upon the far wall. "This dial--is marked with glyphs that I believe are numbers of a sort. This one ... I do not recognize the glyphs at all." He frowned.

"Star patterns," Kain noted running a talon carefully over one inscribed sigil. "Or more precisely, this one has settings for the rising of the west star, Draconis. You see here?" The glyphs were far more complex than they might seem at first glance, for each one marked not simply a word or a number, but rather a constellation or a pattern of them. Still, if one knew Nosgoth's skies, and how to tell the time by them, and also made some educated guesses....

It was not a perfect solution, but Raziel had a great deal of knowledge of how the night sky changed over great expanses of time. Kain moved about the chamber, pausing to discuss individual dials with Raziel, setting each one in turn.

Raziel was no astronomer, but he had observed the night sky enough over the millennia to know how the stars shifted in their course. It took a certain amount of guesswork, but after some conferring he and Kain reached a setting that seemed likely to take them far back in history. *How* far back, and what this chamber might become--that would have to be seen.

The last dial turned under their hands... and the portal above blasted into life. Pale white streamers of fire curled forth, and then cleared to a pale blue, flickering within the frame with a hollow ringing sound.

Kain glanced once more at the settings and dials, then collected the tome and sealed it away within a dimensional pocket. They would require it later, most likely. He mounted the stairs, moving cautiously. The energies seemed to pluck at him, a strange drawing sensation. Reaching up, Kain unslung the Reaver. He looked back at Raziel once more... then turned, and stepped through.

Not trusting Tarrant at his back, Raziel waited until the Power had stepped through the portal, then followed. The energies of the timestreaming portal curled around him, pulling him in a whirlwind of directions until he hardly knew up from down. Heavy curling mists obscured his vision, but there was only one direction left to go--forward.

One step, then another ... and the mists of the portal parted. There, before him, stood Kain and Tarrant on the dais, unscathed. And beyond them was a small group of blue-skinned, black-winged and -taloned Ancients, clad in what could only be ceremonial robes, staring at them all with no small astonishment.

"Damnation," Raziel muttered under his breath. So much for a discreet scouting effort ...

The chamber was as pristine as if newly-built. The walls were covered in painted murals -- fine designs long since corroded to nothingness in Kain's time. And the Ancients....

There were six of them, looking upon the little group with surprise writ clear on their visages. The feel of them was like the taste of sky -- they all had vampiric auras, impressions of great accumulated power, but none of them seemed... felt... old. Their fine robes of white were heavy with gold thread, exquisite in detail.

One Ancient, who stood with his back to the portal, as if addressing the others, turned slowly. "Athan toloth quesse paur?" he said hesitantly, eyes wide upon the Reaver... then yet wider, upon Raziel.

Kain let the point of the Reaver drop, as the Ancients made no threatening moves. "How fares your classical linguistics, Raziel?" he asked, softly.

Tarrant also kept his sword lowered, though it seemed to slowly, but inexorably, suck all of the warmth out of the room.

"He said, 'What in the world?'"

His ability to understand others' languages was no different in this time than any other.

Raziel glanced at Tarrant in surprise, even as he moved more to the fore. "I should have expected this," he said quietly, chagrined. "I do not speak the Ancient tongue--it was long lost by my time." Janos, when he had seen him, had spoken the common Nosgothian parlance of the time--no doubt in deference to his guest.

Slowly, carefully, he sheathed his sabre, and held out his open hands--three-fingered the same, though more brutally taloned than those of the Ancients.

The winged beings glanced at one another. One shuffled his wings nervously, glancing to Tarrant's sword, and whispered to his companion.

"Dol or uhr?" offered one of the Ancients, addressing Raziel.

"Menel thol?" said another.

 _"Ssstallik 'ahlsst baaht?"_ offered one, and the harsh syllabants of the Hylden tongue seemed cultured and smooth from his lips. Even still, the sound of the words made several of the Ancients flinch just slightly, pulling their wings a fraction tighter.

"Human speak, perhaps?" asked one of the ethereally beautiful creatures. It was an old dialect, one used but rarely for courtly presentations, even in Kain's time.

"They're asking us what language we speak," Tarrant clarified to his companions.

Of course, the Ancients could understand him, too, regardless of what he spoke.

"I'd gathered that," Raziel said dryly. Then he turned to the Ancient that had spoken the human dialect. "Yes--I can understand you in this tongue," he replied. He'd picked up quite a few languages as the eons had passed, and it took a conscious effort not to let slip in more modern turns of phrase. "You have our apologies for this intrusion."

The other Ancients shifted uneasily, looking to each other. Thankfully, they did not seem angry so much as simply nonplussed. He wondered if Kain and Tarrant would even be recognized as vampires, given how humanlike they still were.

At Raziel's words, the Ancients spoke rapidly together in their tongue. Several of them seemed to grow increasingly excited, animated. Others seemed more skeptical. A few phrases in particular were repeated, loud enough to catch Tarrant's ear -- 'Divine benefactor,' and 'Reaver.'

At last, the leader turned back to Raziel, spreading a palm as the elder had done. "It is no intrusion at all -- we simply did not expect you so soon. Please direct your manservants to enfold their weapons. Will you come share discourse with the tenth guardian?" His words were thick with the same accent Janos had once spoken with.

"Manservants?" echoed Kain, nettled. But as the Ancients continued to make no threatening moves, he lifted the Reaver, folding it away into a dimensional pocket.

"I am in no one's service," Tarrant stated, his tone exquisitely smooth and yet somehow ice-cold, to the Ancients; they heard his words in their own tongue, just as Raziel and Kain heard it in theirs.

The two vampires were under his watch, but even discretion was not going to oblige him to act the servant. Let them figure out how to deal with any inconvenience it might cause!

Quite deliberately, by his own choice and in his own damn time, he sheathed his sword. The malevolent chill emanating from him, however, only seemed to intensify.

Faintly amused both by the Ancients' assumptions, and by Kain and Tarrants response to it, Raziel inclined his head. "By all means--I and my ... companions would be honored." The tenth guardian--did he mean Janos, the Reaver guardian? Or some other? Raziel stepped off the dais, following the Ancient spokesperson, the others clearing the way. No doubt they would find out soon enough.

Black feathers whispered like silk against one another as the Ancients moved, parting for Raziel. These did not seem to be warriors, for they did not walk in any manner of defensive formation, but rather grouped around Raziel, as if too polite to gawk or pepper him with questions, and yet not quite able to entirely contain their curiosity.

The hallways and corridors were new, and brightly painted with exquisitely detailed scenes. Some panels were yet blank, awaiting artwork that would not last out the passage of the millenniums. Gone were the rock falls that had choked the way; the ceiling was whole and beautifully inscribed. Everything was lit by gently drifting little balls of light, akin to the ones Kain utilized.

The Ancients almost entirely ignored Kain, though some few glanced at him with something akin to gently horrified pity. Tarrant attracted more attention. "What a fascinating darkmagic construction," breathed one of the apparently older winged beings, his hair and wings streaked with silver, reaching out with a taloned forefinger to stroke Tarrant's shoulder. He tilted his head, eyes unfocussing, as if seeing more than simply the physical. "But how do you keep it from dissolving in the light of day? Do you simply craft another each eve?"

One of the other Ancients touched the curious being's sleeve. "Pardon Kadar, if you will," he said, addressing Raziel. "Darkmagic is his passion."

Kadar's question, however, was about to become relevant. They turned a corner and found the exit to the underground complex, just down a short corridor. The huge, carved archway was one Kain had never before seen -- it must have been buried by rubble years before his time. The heavy bronze doors were ajar, enough to see a steep path leading down into a verdant autumn forest... and a bright afternoon sky above.

Tarrant betrayed no fear, though he was most assuredly afraid of that sun. He could not keep it from dissolving, not yet-- his new Powers might lead to a further evolution, a divergence from previous patterns, but it would take time.

The open door let enough sunlight in that his bloodless skin began to redden and tighten. A drop of blood welled in one eye, and then slowly slid down his cheek. His skin then healed... and burned again.

He ignored the questions, and kept his expression cold. Weakness was unacceptable. He was the Hunter, the Neocount, the Prophet. He was willing to burn up on the spot without making a sound or betraying any pain.

"Construction?" Raziel glanced at the newly-named 'Kadar'--then, noticing Tarrant's reaction to the sun, frowned. He stepped in front of the Power, doing what little he could to block the sun with his body. How could a creature of Tarrant's power be more fragile than any fledgling in this? "You should have told us of this," Raziel said to him. Stoicism was one thing, but this was pure idiocy. He looked at the Ancients surrounding them.

"He is no golem--rather a companion from far shores." The human language of the time had no words for 'space' or 'another world''. "Is there a way to shield him from the sun?" If not, the Power might have to remain in the caverns ....

"Not a golem?" Kadar asked in clear disbelief, even as he spread one wing, shading Raziel and Tarrant both. His fight feathers were longer than a man's arm, and with the shelter of those pinions came something like a dark tide, soothing and cool. The resonance of that power sung to the blade Kain kept hidden as well as the one coiled within Raziel, as if the elder had thrust the Reaver into a Font of Darkness. "But..."

One of the other Ancients subtly cleared his throat. Kadar paused, evidently recalling his comportment. "Yes, certainly," he replied to Raziel. "Just a moment..." the shadows around Tarrant, under the Ancient's wing, thickened, shifted, seemed to cling to the Power. The layers of spellweaving were quick, but very neat and precise, well-practiced. "There," said Kadar, with satisfaction. "That should last a few days. How does it feel? Comfortable?" He asked Tarrant warmly, as if having just fit him for a cloak.

"Very much so," Tarrant stated courteously to the Ancient. "Thank you."

Indeed, now that the insult to his flesh was blocked, his skin immediately began to heal. The trickle of blood eased; he used a whisper of power to make it, and the remnants of his own peeling skin, vanish.

He was a fastidious creature.

To Raziel, he said coolly, "And find myself awakening under the sun some morning whilst you and that fledgeling run off? Hardly."

"So instead you chose the risk of us doing the very same thing out of ignorance rather than deliberate harm?" Raziel retorted. "That hardly seems the better option. But no matter--our gracious hosts seem to have taken it upon themselves to remedy that oversight regardless." With a shake of his head, he turned away, and proceeded out of the cavern and into the sun.

Most of the Ancients kept close with Raziel, likewise seeming to have no trouble with the sun. "This way, if you please?" said one, spreading a palm towards white spires that rose in the distance. Two of the Ancients launched themselves from the cliff face, letting their bodies hurtle down towards the forest below and then spreading their wings with a snap. Their ceremonial robes billowed around them as they powered their way, low and fast, towards the city.

Two of the ethereal blue creatures discussed something quietly in their tongue. They seemed to be arguing about who was to undertake an unpleasant task.

Kain sniffed. Fledgling, indeed. "There'd have been no running," he said, following Raziel out to the open air. "Flying, perha...!" Without any particular warning, the youngest of the two Ancients -- the one who had evidently lost the argument -- swept him up, taking him over the side of the cliff.

"Now, don't strain yourself, or you'll tear it," said Kadar, evidently referring to the shield of darkmagic that clung about Tarrant, as he walked out beside the Power.

"I won't."

Tarrant tilted his head back to squint up at the sun. "I haven't seen that in a thousand years..." he murmured aloud, though he may well not have realised it.

It made him stop walking, and stare at that sun like some mad mooncalf. But would not many others have done the same?

Glancing backward, Raziel hesitated--but Tarrant was well able to take care of himself, as the Power had taken great pains to point out. And there was something in that upward gaze that Raziel recognized ...

Turning away, Raziel launched himself from the cliff face, spreading his wings. A few strong wingbeats, and he was flying instead of falling, gliding in closer to the others. It was--strange, to have others close to his kind to fly with. The rustle of feathers made him keenly aware of the differences between himself and the Ancients, and while he would never be ashamed of his wings, he was very--conscious of them, and his appearance, ivory-pale instead of sky-blue.

There might have been something else Raziel recognized, too -- the city far ahead was nestled on a large island in the center of a wide, deep-blue lake. Kain had once taken Raziel to a lost city located in very similar terrain. The two Ancients accompanying Raziel flew slowly at first, but as it became clear that the elder was more than capable of keeping up, they pumped their wings, ascending into the achingly clear sky.

Kain had a considerably less smooth ride. Snarling, he twisted in the Ancient's grasp, trying to decide if it would be unmannerly to just dissolve in a flock of bats... when the view below made him catch his breath. The leaves were just starting to turn with early autumn, leaving the world a patchwork mosaic of reds, oranges, and brilliant yellows. But even with the onset of winter, there was something... incredibly verdant about the earth, life and health packed into every grain of soil. Flocks of birds burst from cover, Kain's sharp eyes caught the movements of beasts as they darted through the thick cover. Something horselike, but all glistening white, matched their progress for a few hundred meters before veering off into thicker brush. Kain stilled himself, ignoring the talons clasped around his ribs, and just watched.

Kadar gave Tarrant a few moments, but soon enough the other flyers were beginning to grow distant. "Once we are certain your companion is who we think he is, why don't you come by my workshop sometime?" Kadar said, continuing to eye the Power with interest. "Now... if you'll come with me?" he reached to pick Tarrant up, one arm around his waist, the other around his back.

"I can fly," Tarrant assured him, whilst reaching down to extricate himself from the grabby Ancient's grasp.

"Why, how splendid," said Kadar, with every evidence of fascination. "Tell me, do you fly by walking upon a congealment of shadows? How do you avoid Thress' paradox, in that case? I have a theory, of course, but..." Tarrant having captured one wrist, the Ancient proceeded to sweep him up around the waist with the other arm, carrying him to the edge. Kadar spread his silver streaked wings, pumping them once, experimentally.

Tarrant's form liquefied, slithering out of Kadar's grasp.

A great white phoenix, silver-eyed and exquisitely beautiful, called out with a voice like some divine bell, and soared down after the others.

That sight would surely never be seen again, for when would such a creature of darkness as he ever again have the opportunity to be so lovely under the sun?

Kadar gave the matter some thought, working through what pathways the construct might have employed in order to... "What a marvelous solution!" he called out to the great, bird-like creature, as he launched himself after, the tendons in his wings creaking.

At the strange cry of the bird, Raziel looked back over his shoulder--then did a double-take at the sight of the white phoenix. "Tarrant?"

Apparently the Power's ability to shapechange extended to aesthetics as well as form ...

The bird circled Kadar, before diving swiftly towards Raziel. It fixed an eye the size of a dinner plate on the vampire-- the color matched Tarrant's.

In this shape, with no conduit between them, it could not speak. But it did not need to to further reveal its identity with words-- in its wake, from its massive wingbeats, blew an intensely cold wind, completely at odds with the sun which, though it imparted no warmth, limned the divine bird's feathers with gold.

The flight was not long at the speeds the Ancients maintained, and the city was soon spreading out beneath their broad wings. Small, ramshackle human villages crowded the lake's shores, and provided stark visual contrast for the gleaming construction of the city itself, with its wide streets, spires, and archways that opened onto sheer vertical drops.

The lost city Kain and Raziel had once explored had contained only half-ruined stone buildings, but it was evident now that wood originally formed a large part of the Ancients' construction preferences -- whether forming huge archways, or exquisitely carved and inlaid upon surfaces, the warmth of polished wood was everywhere.

The inhabitants of the city, however... were not. There were humans enough in the outlaying streets, of course, but only a dozen bodies flying over them. There were other Ancients, too -- some hurrying between buildings, or winging short distances, and even one small group that seemed to simply be engaged in sunning their outstretched wings. But for a city built by and for a winged species... there were strikingly few of them in evidence.

The Ancients with Raziel relaxed into a shallow stoop, gliding for the courtyard of a cathedral-like, elegantly tall structure, more massive than most castles of Kain's era. Kadar trailed behind.

The city was beautiful--a sight Raziel could hardly have dreamed from the weathered ruins of the Ancients he had seen before. Even Janos' Retreat seemed a hovel next to these elegant buildings, nestled in their verdant valley, and something in his chest clenched at the thought of their inevitable decay: emptied as one by one their architects fell to despair, until there were none left to tenant the haunted and echoing rooms. As it was, the streets were already empty indeed--nothing like the teeming masses of humanity in Meridian, or even Haven.

Thee blood curse had obviously already taken its first harvest; and it would eventually ensure the extinction of this accomplished, winged race from the face of Nosgoth.

His guides had settled down upon the front courtyard of the cathedral in a flurry of dark wings and gold-embroidered robes. Raziel followed, backwinging until he too had set foot to ground, looking about curiously.

Tarrant did not land so much as gently flow downward, like viscous fluid, into his usual form.

Sunlight made his honeyed hair bright gold, as it has been before a millennium of darkness had darkened it to a richer, antiqued hue. In a fit of pique, he kept the wings, leaving them white; he edited his fingers into talons, made the minute adjustments to the cut of his clothing and the shape of his body to model himself more closely onto his companions, though he somehow retained his slender beauty.

Refinement was intensely important to him. He was no brute!

And he had swiftly tired of being treated like some fanciful beast. He was a _civilised_ creature.

Though the irony of taking an angel's form amused him even despite his irritation.

It seemed that news had spread already, likely carried by the two Ancients who had darted ahead of the others, for there was some activity in the courtyard. Ancients crowded the archways that bordered the open space. Some of them, both women and men, were dressed in heavily-enchanted leather armor, and bore elegant spears or sheathed swords. Others wore ceremonial robes in white and gold, like the party's escorts, and still more were garbed in simpler, more casual belted tunics. the winged beings had clearly come straight from whatever other tasks they labored at, for some of them looked a little tousled, with ink-stained hands.

The air of the place seemed to be one of tightly restrained excitement, and great anticipation. The Ancients made some polite effort to refrain from gawking openly, but it was clear that the arrival had garnered great attention. "This way, if you please. The high priest would speak with you in private," said one of the first Ancients, gesturing Raziel towards the big central archway that led into the cathedral. "Your sun bird and your... human will be attended to." He gestured the two undead towards a pair of approaching attendants -- one of the Ancients who had flown ahead, along with a female, likewise in ceremonial robes.

Kain was deposited on the ground beside Tarrant. "Wha... _human_?" he growled, starting towards where Raziel had landed. Damned if he'd be shuffled off like some servant.

Both gratified and worried by the instant attention their little group had generated, Raziel gave a nod to the Ancient to show he had understood, but hung back long enough to try and head off the growing dispute.

"This is Kain--he is also a vampire, and bearer of the Reaver blade." Raziel trusted that the Ancients would know the full import of his words, even if Kain did not.

Giving Kain a meaningful glance, Raziel felt for the thread-thin connection between them, and Whispered, _Perhaps you and Tarrant should go with them--we would cover more ground, and hopefully learn more about what they desire of us._ For it was obvious that the Ancients expected *something* of them--and Raziel had a fear that they might be seen as the instruments of salvation--one that they could not deliver.

The Ancient trying to direct Raziel inclined his head politely. "The tenth guardian will no doubt be eager to speak with you regarding how a human came to be infected with our curse," he said. He did not add 'and how such a creature came to lay hand upon the Reaver,' but the codicil was plain in his tone.

Kain paused, then reluctantly nodded just slightly. Raziel would need time -- preferably away from Tarrant -- to arrange matters. And the Power could not be left to wander alone in any of Nosgoth's eras if it could be avoided; one bad misstep and they might all find themselves ejected from the timestream.

Fuming a little, Kain turned on his heel. "Shall we, Tarrant?" he queried. Oddly, it did not trouble him overmuch to leave Raziel alone amongst these beings of such manifest magical power -- the awe with which the Ancients regarded Raziel was clear. But he would keep the contact afforded by the Whisper in reserve... just in case.

Tarrant's lips thinned. He considered being difficult. He should have been.

It was all too convenient to have him isolated from this meeting, and he knew it.

On the other hand, if the Ancients wanted something...

Bah. He would continue to eavesdrop, even if the distance would render the conversation one-sided. Were it necessary, he would try to trawl through the elder vampire's mind when they joined back up again.

"As you like, fledgeling."

He was willing to bide his time.

Raziel also had another motive for wishing them separated; Janos was sure to ask about matters that Raziel could only answer honestly outside of Kain's presence, if he wished the younger vampire to remain ignorant regarding Raziel's origins ... and his eventual fate.

With a final glance to ensure that Tarrant was inclined to cooperate, Raziel turned away, following his guide into the dimness of the cathedral.


	3. Chapter 3

The click of taloned feet and the rustle of feathers seemed to echo loudly as Raziel and his escort entered the cathedral. A few steps past the entrance, Raziel had to stop and take in his surroundings. Unlike human cathedrals--even the famed Avernus--this one was full of light and open spaces, as befitted a winged race. Polished white stone was married to gleaming wood in multileveled vaults and arches that inevitably drew the eye upward, to a ceiling adorned with more murals of the sky, and winged creatures worshiping an unseen center. Shafts of light, haloed by dust motes, filtered downward from the airy windows, and lent the entire vestibule a lambent kind of peace.

The central figure of this space was waiting for them--a familiar face. Clad in ornate robes, ebony wings held proudly behind him with no trace of Hylden possession, Janos watched them approach. His face, far from being ageless, showed the tracks of war and grief; but there was still a light in his eyes and an almost palpable energy in his frame as he watched them approach.

Janos Audron, progenitor of all vampire kind, drew a slow and, perhaps, faintly trembling breath at the sight of Raziel. The other accompanying Ancients hung back at the entrance to the huge, echoing central altar, leaving Raziel and Janos with a certain amount of privacy. “Greetings, time-spanned soul. I am Janos Audron.”

"Janos ..." Raziel said the name as if it were a prayer--or perhaps an apology. What did one say to a creature who had waited thousands of years for your arrival, who had selflessly sacrificed himself for your sake and that of Nosgoth--and who you had unwittingly condemned to a hellish existence? He walked forward slowly, stopping just out of arm's reach. "I am glad to see you again."

“And I you, my child,” said Janos, “though this is our first meeting, in my timeline.” The statement was not non-trivial; for a creature who traversed the ages might easily lose track of which individuals he had met at which point in their histories. His gaze lingered upon Raziel’s features, his own visage was open with a certain kind of emotion, perhaps akin to awe, as if he saw far more than mere physical presentation. “Your arrival has been prophesied. How shall we address you?”

Raziel shook his head a little at the open reverence. "I am just ... Raziel. I am not even your messiah. Not in the way you think," he said gently, not wanting to disappoint Janos--but not wanting to lie to him either. Not when hope had been so plainly writ upon the faces of all those here.

Far from appearing discouraged, Janos simply nodded, with deeply peaceful acceptance. “The paths laid out before us by the Maker are oft obscured, Raziel, but they guide us regardless.” He reached beside him to the altar. The altar was formed of metalwork so fine it seemed like gossamer, yet it was clearly strong, for upon it lay a long, beautifully-carved swordcase. “Through the dark powers allied against you, you have traced your way to this moment.” Janos thumbed the hidden catch of the decorative case, and lifted the lid. The Reaver lay within, upon a bed of silk, ensconced like the holiest of relics.

Janos curved his talons beneath it with great reverence. “Even the most sight-blind among us knows the truth made manifest. This blade, the most formidable weapon ever forged by our swordsmiths, was made for you alone.”

Raziel took a step back as Janos turned, offering the blade to him. Even now he could feel the siren call of the empty Reaver; not-yet-ensouled, there was none of the sense of kinship, just a mindless pure hunger for blood and life--*his* life.

"I cannot take the blade, Janos," he said hastily, his right hand clenching at his side as he fought down the urge to reach for the hilt. "This is neither the time or the place--the Reaver must go through other hands before it ... comes to me." There was a terrible resignation in his face as he looked down on the blade that was to be his prison. "I am afraid that you are destined to guard it for some time to come ..."

Janos slowly withdrew the proffered blade. His was not a species that questioned or doubted divine ordinance, no matter the price. “Then it will be guarded, as it has been,” he said, laying the blood Reaver with great care back into its silken case. “Tell me, my child, of your purpose here, if not to take up the Reaver?”

"In truth ..." Raziel hesitated, casting a wary eye on the other Ancients who still hung about near the entrance of the cathedral, listening intently to their words. "In truth, Janos--we were not sure in what point in time the timestreaming portal would send us. We were just beginning to learn its workings, in the hopes--that it might prove an answer to our previous mistakes."

Janos arched an eyebrow as he carefully closed and latched the lid of the chest. “There are no coincidences -- most particularly not where you are involved, Raziel,” he said. “We shall assist you in any manner necessary; what mistakes must needs be amended?” The offer was made in all seriousness. Barring only shirking their own duties to the Reaver, the Ancients would do anything in their very great collective powers to assist their divine benefactor.

"This is not your burden, Janos," Raziel protested. "Nor that of your people, who have burdens enough of their own." He carefully did not mention the blood curse, not knowing how taboo a subject it might be. "It is mine--a self-serving desire to find some place, or more accurately, some era in which my clan might find sanctuary. Their own time no longer has a place for them, but--" he trailed off, waving a hand as if to show his frustration and impotence. "It is dangerous, and selfish, but I find I cannot simply leave them to their fate. However, I would not bring them to a time and place in which they would trouble your people."

“A clan.... Walk with me, Raziel?” As he had once before, Janos turned, moving contemplatively to a broad archway, nearly large enough for an Ancient to fly through. Beyond was a balcony upon the sun-warmed south side of the temple, overlooking much of the city and its depleted streets.

“It has been twenty-eight years since the raising of the Pillars; nine since the completion of the Reaver,” Janos said, closing his hands on the carved railing. “In less than a generation, we have become a shadow of ourselves -- and a fifth of our former number. Those that remain... do so out of love, or hope, or passion... or duty to the Reaver and the future you represent.”

Raziel bowed his head in acknowledgment of that loss. "I wish I knew a way to undo what the Hylden have done, Janos--and what your future holds. But if I do--I undo myself." he said, very quietly. All his efforts would mean less than nothing if he created another Paradox that negated his own existence.

Janos reached out, and gently brushed back a wing of Raziel’s dark hair that had fallen forward. His sky-blue skin was living and warm. “I do not mean to dishearten you, my child. This city was built for far more beings than it now contains; there is a place here for tens of thousands. Or within other cities, some now abandoned, upon both continents of this world.”

"Your offer is generous, but--my clan is very different from your people. They are vampires, true, but ... they are not alive, but undead. They, like myself, do not come from Ancient stock." Raziel wanted so badly to take hold of what Janos was offering. Only his knowledge of the Ancients' inevitable fate, and his fear that his clan might share it--or worse, speed its arrival--held him back. "We are predators, Janos. Even the kindest among us are still warriors ... still killers. Your curse is your bane--but our blood thirst and immortality are fundamental facets of our existence. It is all we have ever known. Answer me truly; could your people understand such creatures, and welcome them? Or would their coming simply bring more pain and strife?"

Janos opened his wings a little, refolding them with a soft rub of feathers against silken robes. “This, I do not know. Since the magics were developed to create blood fountains, we have been forced to kill only rarely for our survival.” Janos exhaled, as if in amusement. “Just as well, for I fear that humanity had -- and has -- little tolerance for our depredations. They do not understand their role in this existence, nor ours, and so are vulnerable to manipulation.” And, perhaps eventually, disposed towards uprising, was the unspoken warning. “But yes, Raziel. Even if our... philosophical differences demanded a wide physical separation, I believe it quite likely my brethren could coexist with descendants of yours.”

"We have little reason to love humans--or they us, that is for certain," Raziel remarked. "Which brings up another concern--would not the addition of a strange, new--and bloodthirsty--race strain your dealings with them even further?" The Razielim could subjugate them, of course, as they had in the Empire--but that might also set the stage for the humans' future enmity. Raziel also thought it likely that their erstwhile hosts, for all their curse-inspired blood thirst, would object to humans being treated as cattle.

Janos considered this. “Could your kind subsist primarily upon the bloodfountains, and those amongst the humans who volunteer for the service? If so, then they would be free to settle as they please. If not...” and Janos could well comprehend the need to hunt, to slake one’s thirst from a dying body, “‘twould be simple enough for us to move the last of our populace from the far continent, and your kin might settle there.” Janos paused. “In either case, we should consider it an honor to host your brethren, so long as we are able. The knowledge that the pillars will hold for a long while to come is... a comfort.”

"My clan could subsist upon the blood fountains, barring such tribulations as battle or travelling far distances--and they would do so if I ordered it done." Of his clan's obedience, Raziel had no doubt. "For the humans, however--I doubt that it would be enough to stave off their enmity for long." Looking down from the balcony on to the small city, and the huddled human settlements upon its outskirts, Raziel saw in it only an omen of things to come. "My clan would not take kindly to any insult offered by those they consider beneath them. A clash, I fear, may be inevitable, though it may take several human generations to come about. If nothing else, I can tell you not to trust the humans, though you may little need the warning." Taking the long view was necessary for an immortal race; still, no place would be safe forever. Raziel knew that. And in those generations, the Razielim might be able to find new strength in their alliance with the Ancients ....

"Let me think upon your offer, Janos, and confer with my companions," he said finally. "I would also ask that you speak with your people as well, and see if they are in agreement with you. There are empty spaces enough in the world, and I would not wish either of our clans to come to misfortune through an ill-considered alliance."

Janos nodded. “There shall be more empty spaces before this plays out in its entirety, I fear, and history will spin its events with, or without, your small insertion now. The very fact that you can remain in this era, and not find yourself cast out by the fickle streams of time, proves that much. However, there is time enough for contemplation of the matter. In the meanwhile... tell me of your companions. You count among them a... human afflicted with the bloodcurse, do you not?”

"Yes, Kain." Raziel gave Janos a sidelong glance, then turned partly away, settling his hands upon the polished rail of the balcony. "He is the last Balance Guardian, the last vampire of his time--and my Sire, though he knows it not."

Janos’ eyes widened. There was a great deal of information in Raziel’s single sentence, much of it disturbing. “The Pillars... will call a human to serve as guardian? How is that possible?”

"You would likely know better than I," Raziel said in answer, looking in the direction where he knew the Pillars stood. "The Pillars require guardians. What happens when there are no longer any Ancients to serve them?" He had met the spirits of those first Ancient guardians--met and devoured them. It had been necessary, and yet ... "Only pieces of history remain, to tell us the story--but from what I have seen, the Ancients first passed the curse to humans, turning them into vampires, in order to serve as guardians. Then--humans themselves stepped in as guardians, though whether through a natural selection or rebellious overthrow, I cannot say. They served for a time, and did their best to eradicate the remaining vampires. Ultimately, though, their guardianship was ... inadequate."

At this distance, the pillars could not be seen, even by Raziel’s sharp eyes. “A human would most likely prove incapable of managing a Pillars’ more extreme states,” Janos agreed, slowly. “At this point in time, the guardians of the Pillars all yet live. Should any of them fall.... we had not considered transmitting the curse to a living human.” Janos’ talons tightened on the railing. Once the guardians knew that they could be replaced -- albeit by humans -- how long would their duty sustain them? “Know you aught of how this transmission was accomplished?”

Raziel shook his head. "It was done thousands of years before my birth, and the Pillars had been in human hands for centuries, at least, by the time I was in the world. Much knowledge was lost when the Ancients and their vampire inheritors passed away. Kain--is a fledgling, as you have seen, and yet has no elder to teach him of the Pillar he serves, or of his nature. It will take him centuries to piece together what he can, and much of it will still be obscured by both the mists of time and the lies of others."

 

“And he bears the Reaver,” Janos mused. Those, perhaps, were the ‘other hands’ of which Raziel spoke... he held up a hand. “Upon which subject, I shall not question you. No other device warps time about itself as does that blade; it may be unwise to chance too much foreknowledge of it,” he said, with regret. The Reaver was his charge, and their only real hope of defeating the Hylden once and for all... but Janos had seen the blade’s forging and knew its power.

Clasping his hands behind him, Janos turned, to pace slowly. “It would seem, then... that we must needs test the means of turning a human, before we risk a human pillar guardian,” he said, thoughtfully.

Raziel watched him, and wondered how much he dared tell. He did not have the same blithe faith in history as Janos--most especially not since there were *two* Reavers in this time and place, just as there had been at the murder of William the Just. Kain had already unwittingly changed time for the worse, not just once, but twice--Raziel did not want to follow in his footsteps.

"I know the means by which my kind create vampires from humans ... but I do not know if such a method would work the same for the Ancients," he said slowly, considering the matter.

Janos nodded slightly. “I shall have several candidates selected. If you think it wise, we would welcome your assistance.” He glanced to the archway, sharp senses catching the scuff of clawed feet on the tiles in the main chapel. “In the meantime, your presence here will be cause for celebration. Will you remain in this era a while? A few days, perhaps a week, would be sufficient for those of us remaining upon the far continent to fly in. And the guardians would surely meet you.”

Raziel's first urge was to state that as much as he would have wished otherwise, they simply did not have the time to observe the pleasantries--but then he caught himself. With the timestreaming portal, they had nothing *but* time--especially if they could prevail upon the Ancients to teach them its workings. If they could arrive at any point in the future or past that they liked, regardless of the Hylden's machinations--then that alone was well worth staying. There was also the question of his clan, and whether they could abide with the Ancients ...

Finally, he nodded. "I cannot speak for the others, but I would welcome the chance to learn more about this time and the Ancients. Your offer is more than generous, Janos. You have my thanks."

Janos laid a taloned hand upon Raziel’s shoulder. “And you, mine,” he said. “Your presence shall be a balm for the worries of many.” He glanced towards the archway. “Including those too brash to await a proper welcoming ceremony.”

Evidently chagrined, a pair of Ancients moved out from around the stone columns. One was female, known to Raziel by her feathered headpiece and blue, hooded cowl. The other was a male, larger, and now forever youthful, though scarred with the evidence of many past battles. He carried an elaborately spiked and flared half-helmet.

“Raziel,” said Janos. “May I introduce Shamgar, the Conflict Guardian, and Ziliah, the Guardian of Nature.”

Eyes widening in recognition, Raziel bowed low, with a reverence he used for few others ... and also letting the motion cover the frisson of unease that ran down his spine. For these, unmistakably, were the Ancient guardians whose spirits he had defeated, then devoured in his quest to purify the Reaver. It was ... awkward to meet them in the flesh, to say the least.

"Shamgar, Ziliah. I am honored," he said simply.

“No less than we,” Ziliah said, gliding forward. Her spirit had been monstrously deformed by the passage of eons, but now she was as lovely as any other Ancient, with strong, dark features.

“It is good to meet you,” said Shamgar, with a broad smile. Despite his hearty and jovial demeanor, a certain darkness lurked around his eyes, suggesting that perhaps eternity weighed heavily upon him already. “We knew that as soon as Janos made the announcement, you’d be inundated by well-wishers. So we might as well be first in line,” he grinned.

“For shame, Janos,” tsked the Nature Guardian. “Keeping the Divine Benefactor here without so much as a meal or a bath. We’d be more than pleased to assist you with both; the steam chambers here are splendid.”

Raziel tilted his head, bemused. "Steam chambers? You still--bathe in water, then?" There seemed to be as many differences as there were similarities between the Ancient and more modern vampire races ...

“Still?” the Ancients glanced to one another. “Of course we do,” said Shamgar. “We should have a few hours before the other guardians are assembled; I fear you shall have little peace this evening. Will you not join us, until then?”

With a glance at Janos, Raziel spread his hands in acceptance. "That sounds most pleasurable. I would be pleased to accept." He half-turned to the older Ancient. "Will you join us as well, Janos? Or will other duties keep you too occupied?" He wondered if he should warn them about Kain's sensitivity to water, to prevent any misunderstandings ... but no. Kain could well take care of himself. Raziel would not insult his sire by acting like an overzealous watchdog.

“I will if time permits,” Janos said, smiling slightly. “Enjoy yourselves, please -- I shall be contacting the outlying settlements with this news.”

The two younger guardians led Raziel out. “You may have been told already, but your coming foretells the salvation of the vampire race,” Ziliah said, shuffling her wings in excitement. “It will be good to have something to celebrate.”

“We shall make certain you have chambers to retreat to, should the press and crowd grow wearisome,” Shamgar said, winking. They took a path towards the back of the temple to a strange, vented chamber. “Have you used these before?” he asked, activating the airflow with a thin wisp of finely-woven air magic. Abruptly, a warm breeze began rising from below, creating a strong updraft that ruffled the Ancients’ feathers.

"Yes, and often," Raziel said in bemusement, looking down at the vents--not obscured with the grime of millennia, but freshly carved and brimming with magic. How often had he cursed the tattered and useless remains of his wings--and how often had he been grateful for these vents, that aided him in reaching the heights that his wings could not?

Unfolding his wings, he let his Ancient guides lead the way, not knowing which of the upper entrances they intended to go to. Ziliah's obvious excitement over their impending 'salvation' was a leaden weight in his heart--he knew he could not, *had* not saved any of them, not even Janos. But should he choose to tell them, and dash their hopes--or remain silent, and allow them what little joy they had, even born of ignorance?

The three figures floated upwards on the warm rise of air, Shamgar’s wingspread so wide his pinions nearly brushed the sides of the vent. The air from one broad archway was humid, and faintly, but sweetly, scented, and it was towards that archway the Ancients glided. The pair of them landed lightly, reaching back to assist Raziel. “What curious armor,” Ziliah said, searching for the buckles of Raziel’s pauldrons with her soft-skinned talons, as she drew him into a dressing-chamber.

The carved marble walls were beaded in places with condensation. The many storage niches, however, were curiously dry. Shamgar dumped his ornate helmet in one, then, unabashedly, set about disrobing.

"What manner of armor do your warriors wear?" Raziel asked curiously, shrugging out from underneath pauldrons and baldric with her deft assistance. Not wishing to gawk like some callow youth, Raziel could not help but gaze admiringly at both Ancients as their bodies were revealed from beneath concealing robes--living bodies, both of them, lean and light-boned, obviously designed entirely for flight.

“Typically, far lighter suits,” Ziliah admitted, laying aside the heavy bronze-plated armor with some appearance of difficulty. Either the Ancients never had strength of their vampire progeny, or the curse had not yet gifted it to them.

“Leathers, often, though even silk may be enchanted sufficiently,” Shamgar said, looking over Raziel’s body with interest and appreciation. “If time permits, our smiths would be honored to craft a spare set for you.” An archway, off to the side, opened into what must be the main bathing area. Pools of were set into the floor, all of them linked so that the hottest water, at one end of the room, circulated slowly into cooler pools near the other end. Small stands held a potentially confusing array of oils, soaps, and scrubbing sponges. Low, padded benches lined the walls. The Conflict Guardian stretched his wings, then settled himself beside one of the central pools.

“I do hope you’ll forgive our curiosity,” Ziliah said, leading Raziel into the same pool. “The prophesies never stated what you’d look like.” She brushed the back of a talon across the outer rim of one of Raziel’s wings.

The wing jerked a little under the gentle touch --but Raziel mastered the reflex, and half-turned, spreading one wing for her inspection. "I must confess, I am a bit surprised. One would think I would seem a featherless oddity to your eyes ..." he said honestly, equally curious at their acceptance. He glanced over at Shamgar. "Leather and silk--and it stands up sufficiently against blade and bow?"

The Conflict Guardian nodded. “And fire, lightning, and acid besides,” he said.

As if stepping into the water had triggered some magic, small streams of bubbles began to cloud the clear liquid. “Oddity? No,” said Ziliah, speading her hands lightly over the thin membrane and delicate spars of Raziel’s wings. “The Hylden have unfeathered wings, though far different in construction, and...” she smiled slightly, perhaps wistfully, “our own fledglings were born without feathers, thusly.”

Shamgar snorted. “Surely you did not just inform the Divine Benefactor that he appears like unto a babe,” he said, fluffing his own feathers.

Ziliah glared, withdrawing her carefully exploring hands. “’Twas not at all my meaning -- the only babe I see is a certain individual with a pathological distaste for wetting his wings.”

“But you _know_ it makes my feathers clump,” said Shamgar, with mock horror.

Amused at the byplay, Raziel half-folded his wings again and stepped gingerly down into the water, regarding the bubbles with a certain amount of fascination. "Is it magic that makes it bubble thus?" he asked curiously. "Or is it some strange property of the water?"

“The effervescence is simply air, forced up from beneath the water by a series of pumps,” explained Ziliah, leading him deeper. “The bubbles can scarce be felt upon most places, but...” she sighed, eyes half-lidding as she submerged her own wings.

Following her lead, Raziel half-unfurled his wings as well, then sank down into the water--only to shudder in surprise as the tiny streams of warm bubbles caressed the sensitive skin with fleeting, featherlike touches. "It feels ... good," he said in surprise, letting out a soft sigh. The heat of the water unknotted muscles he had not even known were tensed, and he sank even deeper, cupping his talons underneath the water and watching the bubbles stream through them with a curious kind of fascination. "And this is all done with machines? In truth, we have lost more than we ever knew ...."

Ziliah selected a sponge and soap from those on offer. “Hylden technology ever was most useful, even if individual machines sometimes fail, after so long. We can replicate the majority of their effects with magic, but... for many applications, the machines simply work best.” She soaped the sponge, and started for Raziel.

"You still use Hylden machines? Even now, after all that has happened?" It was--oddly practical, and very unexpected. Raziel let her approach, relaxing somewhat when her hands were gentle and sure. It was a luxurious feeling, to be attended to in such a way .... a feeling he had not ever truly expected to have again.

The Nature Guardian’s hands were reverent on Raziel’s chest and limbs, taking care with every inch of skin... and exploring the subtle differences between his form and the Ancients’. “We do not hate them. Well,” she glanced to Shamgar, who lounged on his stomach beside the pool, “most of us do not hate them. We did not always understand their ways, but were it not for the divine decree, I think we would not ever have gone to war with them, immortality or no.”

"Divine decree?" Truthfully, Raziel could not fathom *not* hating the Hylden--but then, perhaps they too had been different once ... before their race had endured millennia of imprisonment. It was something that Raziel had not thought about before; and while it did not make them any less his enemies, or any less a threat, it did bring a glimmer of understanding. If this 'decree' and war had been instigated by the Elder God ... then perhaps it had more to answer for than he had believed.

He said nothing of the Elder God, however. As gracious as the Ancients were, if they had gone to war upon their god's command, then he stood little chance of convincing them of the truth of their false deity.

“The last communication we received from God,” said Ziliah, smoothing the warm, rough sponge over Raziel’s throat, then brow, rinsing away traces of dust. “The destruction of the Hylden is... an order we have yet to fulfill. We feared that we should never complete the task -- would fail even to hold the Hylden beneath the seal as more of us returned to the wheel. Thus was the Reaver constructed.” Ziliah finished with Raziel’s front. “Turn, if you please?”

Raziel turned obligingly, spreading his wings a little--somehow, not fearing this touch as he had all the others. Perhaps it was because those talons belonged to a fellow winged creature; naive it might be, but he was hard-pressed to imagine Ziliah rending bone from flesh in the way that Kain had. "The Reaver ... that is the entirety of its purpose, then? To destroy the Hylden?" Or were there parts of the Reaver's destiny that even the Ancients who crafted it did not know?

“Yes,” agreed the Nature Guardian, pausing for a moment to admire the rippled surface of Raziel’s back, the pale expanse of wings.

“Not precisely,” said Shamgar, nudging a bottle of some fluid a little closer to Ziliah. “It might originally have been intended only for that, but...” he shook his head. “The forging of our greatest weapons, like Heart Seeker, is always directed by God. The Reaver’s creation benefited from no such guidance. So while it represents the apex of our craftsmanship and magical abilities... we know not for certain its ultimate purpose.”

Ziliah cleansed Raziel carefully, then took up the bottle, pouring out a palmful of thick oil. With a soft tsk at the state of the soft membrane of Raziel’s wings, she began smoothing and rubbing oil into the skin, lingering over dry places, and tiny imperfections along the trailing edge, lavishing attention on every square inch.

"Heart Seeker? What manner of ....." Raziel broke off as Ziliah began rubbing oil into the thinner skin of his wings, his eyes sliding shut in pleasure. "Oh, that feels good," he murmured, unconsciously arching a little into her hands, wings spreading out further. His wings had been touched before, even caressed by various lovers--but no one had ever paid such single-minded attention to their care. It felt ... incredibly good, relaxing and oddly sensual all at once.

“’Tis difficult to groom one’s own wings, regardless of their construction,” Ziliah agreed, using both hands to stretch the membrane a little, very carefully, checking over the striations of tiny muscles within the delicate layer of skin, and kneading gently where they were overly taut.

“Heart Seeker is the spear I presently wield. Before the Reaver, it was one of our greatest weapons. Like the Reaver, it is vampiric and can be imbued with certain elemental energies...” Shamgar smiled a little, ruefully, perhaps enviously. “Though there the similarity ends.”

"That your people crafted other weapons that even approach the Reaver's power is ... extraordinary," Raziel said with honest admiration, his head dropping forward a little as he luxuriated in the impromptu massage. "It is a skill long lost to my time ... along with so many others." Nosgoth had lost so much when the Ancients had died--and perhaps, even in the Hylden as well. Perhaps that was the crux of the Elder God's machinations; if the elder races of Nosgoth had progressed sufficiently to threaten it, and its Wheel of suffering ... what better way to ensure the elimination of that threat than by pitting them against one another?

"There is such beauty here," he admitted. "It will be difficult to leave."

Shamgar smiled. “I did not say Heart Seeker approached the Reaver, alas. The Reaver is...” he Conflict guardian shook his head, perhaps unable to find the words in the local human tongue. “Something very different. I think I would not touch it -- save to die by it, of course.”

The Nature Guardian narrowed her eyes up at him. “Which is not a choice afforded you, or I,” she said, as if they had argued this before. “And in any case, you worry overmuch. The blade in the Messiah’s hands will fulfill God’s last task for us. That is all we need concern ourselves with.” She patted the completed wing gently, easing it down under the bubbling water to keep warm and relaxed, while she started on Raziel’s other.

Sighing a little in pleasure, Raziel let his wing fold naturally inward, luxuriating in the warmth and the prickle of talon-tips as Ziliah worked on the other. "Mmm .... what is the nature of your guardianship, if I may ask? I have known some others, but I am sure that the roles have changed a great deal over the centuries ...."

“My pillar harvests the energy produced by natural processes the world over, and channels it to the seal. My task is to keep those channels untangled, and ensure that the correct amount of power is drained, so that growth and life are enhanced -- or at least unaffected. It may be simpler to show you, than to tell. _Donne-moi le beur?”_ Ziliah directed that last to Shamgar, who handed over a small, stone bowl. Ziliah scooped some of the contents upon two talons and began working it into a rough spot, where membrane joined bony spar. “You are at a point in your history when you cannot stay long, then?”

"No," Raziel said regretfully, craning his neck a little to see what manner of ointment was being spread upon his wing. Whatever it was, it was cool and soothing, and smelled pleasant, with a hint of exotic spices. "I have others awaiting my return, and duties to them. The Hylden, also, are a concern. The longer our absence, the more opportunity they have to advance."

Shamgar nodded, suddenly intent. “You should speak with the Time guardian, then. Perhaps the streaming chambers can be utilized to outmaneuver your opponents.”

“What can we do to assist your purpose?” asked Ziliah, at last reaching the base of Raziel’s second wing. She stroked over the length of it one last time, then squeezed out the sponge at set it upon the rim of the pool, before Raziel. She kicked to float beside Raziel, balancing with her forearms folded on the edging tiles. Her long feathers sloshed in the water as she spread her wings. “Will you look to the back of my right wing? I have had an itch I could not scratch for hours.”

Raziel blinked. "You wish me to ..." He stopped short, folding his own wings upward and out of the water, looking at those beautiful, horribly fragile ebon pinions. Then he looked down at his own talons, so much larger and harder than the Ancients'. It wasn't that he would begrudge returning the favor, but ... "...I have never dealt with feathers such as yours before," he finally confessed. "I might ... injure you."

“Highly unlikely,” Ziliah said, craning her neck around to take the measure of Raziel’s hesitation. She smiled. “The worst that could happen is that I might be left with a bald spot for a few weeks -- a negligible price to pay.”

“By rights, you would have to pluck a similar spot on the other wing,” said Shamgar, mock-thoughtfully, “lest you be uneven.”

“You are volunteering to permit me to test that theory upon yourself when next we spar, then?” Ziliah asked him sweetly.

Raziel snorted a little at the byplay. Then, reassured somewhat, he moved closer, and carefully laid his palms on the damp blue-black feathers, letting his talon-tips run only lightly over the surface as he smoothed hands downward. The wing under his hands was very warm, completely unlike his own cool flesh, and he could not help but admire both the lithe body it framed, as well as the subtle iridescent hues that shone on the downy feathers. "Like thus?"

“Mmmph,” Ziliah’s eyes drifted shut with pleasure. This close, it became evident that there was another reason the Conflict guardian did not want his wings wetted -- though the glossy feathers mostly repelled water, the smaller, softer ones did quickly become waterlogged. Ziliah could no doubt dry her wings fairly quickly, and could probably still fly even with them wet, but she would surely be slower and clumsier in the air. “Harder,” she prompted, pushing herself a little back, into Raziel.

“In all seriousness,” Shamgar said, “what can we do to equip you for your trials ahead?”

Raziel glanced over at the Conflict Guardian, pondering the offer. Carefully pulling his talon-tips through the flight feathers, he did his clumsy best to comb the barbs all in one direction, so that they lay flat and perfect. His attempts were far from skilled, his touch stronger but still tentative. He could feel Ziliah's fragile skin underneath that protective down, and knew it offered little protection from his talons.

"I could ask for many things," he said slowly. "Weapons, armor ... but it is probably better that I do not. The timeline is resilient, but it is not immutable. I cannot be certain but ... knowledge is probably the only thing I can take safely from this time." Raziel did not have the blind faith in his own actions that Janos did. He had been mistaken in them far too often for that.

Shamgar raised an eyebrow. “You may find that, of the two, knowledge can be far more disruptive than any blade or shield. Still... likely best to speak with wiser minds than mine. We will arrange for a meeting with the Time guardian, in particular.”

Ziliah seemed little inclined to tolerate Raziel’s caution. Pushing herself off the side of the pool, she pressed back into Raziel’s larger body, until her back brushed his chest and his the deadly edges of his talons touched the soft skin under the layered feathers. “Ah, there,” she purred.

Raising his eyebrows at the open display of affection, Raziel did as he was bid, dragging his talons down against that soft skin, through the downy feathers. He could not feel much through the hardened tips of his claws, of course--not like a human's soft fingers would. But Ziliah's open pleasure at the--well, he supposed 'preening' was the only word for it, was very appealing, as was the soft scrape of her feathers against his skin. To Shamgar, he gave a nod of agreement.

"Yes--in truth, we stumbled upon your time by chance. We had hoped we were going into the distant past ... we did not fathom how distant it would be, however." Raziel gave a tiny shrug. "But there is so much we could learn from all of you ... the nature of the Pillars, and of the Reaver, and a great deal more besides."

Reaching the base of one wing, he scratched lightly upward--pleasantly surprised when a musky oil was brought up, smearing over his talons and through the feathers. Taking hint from that, he returned to the spot again and again, anointing his hands, and then using them to pull it through Ziliah's flight feathers, from root to tip.

Shamgar nodded, and sat up, shaking out his wings in a broad stretch. “I shall see to it that you have the knowledge you need.” It would take some planning, no doubt, to arrange to have the best minds of their generation available to Raziel -- demonstrations, books to be translated into a language Raziel could read... fortunately, Shamgar happened to be quite talented with logistics. He eyed the two bathers, smiling slightly. “There shall almost certainly be a celebration tonight -- will you be alright here for a few hours, until then?”

Ziliah shuddered when Raziel pressed against the small oil-gland, grinding herself back into the touch. “What? Oh, certainly,” she said, clearly not paying the Conflict guardian any particular attention as Raziel stroked along the length of her wing.

Raziel paused briefly, his talons still buried in Ziliah's feathers. "I take it you are leaving me to Ziliah's tender mercies?" he asked, half-jokingly. _A few hours?_

It was obvious that the female Ancient was enjoying the preening, but Raziel could not help but wonder if he had somehow been fondling some unknown erogenous zone in full view of the other Guardian. And if he was ... was there some etiquette in all this that he was unaware of?

“Unless you would care to assist the librarians in selecting books to be translated for you, until the other guardians arrive I fear there is little for you to accomplish -- and it seems that Ziliah is more than pleased to help you... relax for a while.” The statement was spoken warmly, with no hint as to whether Raziel was committing a social faux pas. “Would you prefer to come with me?”

Ziliah stilled when Raziel did, and blinked demurely at him over her shoulder, utterly at odds with the way her hips had pressed back, against Raziel’s.


	4. Chapter 4

Raziel glanced between Ziliah and Shamgar, and finding no discomfort on condemnation on either countenance, relaxed somewhat. Giving the Conflict Guardian a wry half-smile, he said, "I must confess, staying here seems infinitely more appealing at the moment then poring over tomes ..." He resumed his gentle strokes, finding the motions a great deal more natural with practice--and which meant also that he could appreciate more the flawless blue curves underneath those wings.

“The attendants in the library may be best suited to that task,” Shamgar agreed, standing. Condensation from the heat and the mist had somewhat slicked his skin and feathers. He retrieved a great square of fabric from another oddly-dry niche, as well as several goblets and a sealed flagon. “Do make certain Raziel knows his way to suitable chambers, before this eve, Ziliah?” he prompted, setting the diningware near the edge of the pool before departing with a wave.

“What? Oh! Yes...” Ziliah gasped, jerking a little as Raziel’s talons stroked over her wings. She spread both broadly, so that her pinions brushed the sides of the pool. Bubbles, trapped by the folds of feathers, foamed up at the movement, and she ground her whole body back into the caresses.

Raziel nodded politely at the Conflict Guardian as he left--then turned his attentions back to the wings under his hands, gratified by the response. "I have never seen such feathered wings--they are amazing," he murmured, enjoying the slow rub of her body against his even as he continued dragging talons into the downy feathers at the base, ruffling then smoothing them. It had been a long time indeed since he'd had sex with a woman. His cock, however, seemed to remember quite well, judging at how quickly it stiffened as it rubbed against the soft swell of her rear.

“Oh?” Ziliah murmured, flexing the broad wings under Raziel’s hands. Feathers shifted and spread, their layers parting, framing her back. She pressed against the side of the pool, rubbing against Raziel in lithe undulation. The soft feathers Raziel ruffled covered the thickest part of the wing, the bone and muscle that powered them, and supported the fan-like layers of flight feathers. “You are most sweetly silver-tongued, but they are not in the least unusual -- not like... ah! yours,” she gasped softly as the edge of Raziel’s talon caught against the shafts of several feathers, slipping down to draw a small, shallow line of red upon the skin.

"Yet there is nothing like them in my time." Nor anything like her, for the Ancients were gone, erased even from memory--but that was too dour a truth for such intimate circumstances. "And they are far more beautiful than mine ..." Broad and well shaped, much like the prized hawks Raziel had once flown, the sweep of flight feathers glossy and well-cared for. Catching the scent of blood, he lifted the blood-smeared talon to his mouth, and licked away the crimson stain--her taste was subtle, yet potent, sending a shiver down his spine.

Slipping a hand underneath one wing, he drew her closer, nuzzling at the downy feathers and the tiny trickle of blood. His cock rubbed between the rounded curves of her ass, hardening even further with every slow shift of their bodies.

“That is hardly tr...” Ziliah started, ending on a high, pleading gasp. Her wing trembled as she pressed it carefully back, into Raziel’s fanged mouth. She reached behind, under the water, soft-skinned talons scraping across his hip, then gripping for purchase as she rocked up a little onto the tips of her toes, buoyed by the water. “You must have such... exquisite cornering in flight...” she tried again, but the movement exposed more soft flesh to the teasing flow of bubbles, and she abandoned the edge of the pool, reaching down to brush a talon against her own slit.

Raziel gave a purring growl, low in his throat. "I would like to see you fly, on some night ..." The feathers were an odd sensation against his lips, and he gave the tiny wound a tentative lick, nuzzling inward towards that soft skin like he would fur or hair. His embrace tightened, one hand splayed low on that taut belly, the other sliding upward to cradle the soft weight of one breast, talons prickling over azure skin. He rubbed the rough pads of his fingers against it, skimming over the tightening nipple, reaquainting himself with the lush pleasure of such soft, yielding skin.

“Yes...” Ziliah gasped, reduced to near-incoherency, “and I you, so agile... through the sky... ” the muscles of her belly rippling under Raziel’s hand, she abandoned her slight weight to his grasp, spreading her thighs, feeling back to wrap a shin against the back of his thigh. The movement lifted her a little more, pressing her breast up into Raziel’s hand, opening small scrapes on her skin. Her talons gripped harder, insistently into the hard plane of Raziel’s hip. His cock slipped down between them, the head nudging into soft folds.

"You must tell me if I hurt you," Raziel murmured into her ear, having moved upward to set sharp fangs lightly into the back of her neck. The Ancients did not seem as fragile as humans, but they also did not seem to have the brute strength of their later, evolved descendants ... He kneaded her breast, the heady scent of blood on her skin, and thrust gently, not entering, but rubbing the length of his cock along her slit, feeling it grow slick and wet.

“Ah!” The sweet, soft cry could have been a sound of agreement, or acknowledgement, or protest at the clamping pressure upon the back of her neck. Ziliah tensed, trying to drag herself down onto Raziel, and cried out again as the firm bite and Raziel’s grasp prevented her going anywhere. Her wings shuddered between them, stirring the water. Moving one hand down a little, her talons stroked up against Raziel’s cock, bubbles flowing over her palm and the length of his organ.

Raziel's breath hissed in through his teeth as he felt her hand close around his erect flesh, and he bucked against those fingers, the warm water sloshing around them both. His own wings had half-unfurled, shivering in evidence of his need. He wanted to linger, to explore her body more--but he would not last long at this pace. He let her fingers stroke across his length, then shifted backwards, setting the head of his cock against her opening--and pushing inside, feeling the liquid heat of her body envelop him in a slow, luxurious stroke. "Unh ... so good ..."

“Yesss... Please!” With the momentary release of the grip upon the back of her neck, Ziliah writhed hard, seeming to alternately press down and to struggle away, body rippling around the cooler length of the impalement. Gasping, her touch fluttered against the base of Raziel’s cock, then she pressed again at her clit, urgently. Even before Raziel was entirely sheathed, she rocked, crying out, shuddering with an abrupt cascade of pleasure and tightening around him. It seemed to little dampen her enthusiasm, as she tried to grind herself down. “Oh, please!”

Feeling her tighten abruptly around him, Raziel gave a low groan as he sank the rest of the way in, until he was sheathed to the hilt. Urging her forward a little, he set teeth in her neck once more, just enough to pierce flesh and taste that sweet blood, and began to move with deep, urgent thrusts. There was no resistance like there was with men--only that slick, welcoming heat, the scent of blood and a woman's arousal perfuming the air. The hand on her belly moved lower, until each downstroke ground her soft folds and hidden clit against his palm.

“Oh!” Ziliah’s talons twined with Raziel’s, holding his hand pressed against her there, as each long thrust filled her. Her cries were words in a lyrical tongue. Raziel was bigger, more heavily built than a flight-adapted Ancient, and each stroke was so deeply, painfully good... her bucking was dampened by the bite at the back of her neck, preventing her from doing herself any real injury against the edges of Raziel’s talons. Even still, the occasional shallow scrape bled freely into the water before slowly closing over. Her eyes were closed, head tilted back, just lost in the bliss of movement.

Raziel gave a growling purr at her cries, feeling her tighten and ripple around him with every inward thrust of his aching cock. Her feathers brushed against his sides in constant rustling caresses, her flesh hot against his hands, and her blood was uniquely sweet--still living, yet filled with the power of a vampire, and of a Guardian. He continued to thrust, burying himself deep with every stroke, feeling the slick flesh clasp him, welcome him, and felt his balls tighten as the pleasure shivered over his skin and down his nerve endings.

One of the gripping, rough ridges that crossed Raziel’s palm scraped lightly across that little node, blindingly pleasurable, at the flashpoint of pain. Ziliah shuddered hard once more, convulsing even in Raziel’s powerful grip. Her body clenched down, rippling. Ziliah bucked, crying out, trying to tilt her hips into that fleeting touch, trying to buck back into the penetration. Her wings foamed the water, wide-spread feathers fluttering at the edge of the pool.

That last clench was all it took to push Raziel over the edge--he released his bite and gave a guttural cry of triumph and release as he thrust deep, once, twice, and then spilled over, every muscle locked and tense, his wings outspread and shuddering. It was a fierce kind of climax, the kind one could only have with another vampire, and his power surged outward in an electric wave, rippling over them both.

Ziliah went boneless in his grasp, quaking, still clenching in spasms around Raziel’s organ. As powerful the Ancients were, Raziel’s store of energies had been forged in the trials of millennia, and that brilliantly intense wave swamped the far younger vampire, and Raziel broke through, into.... It was akin to the times he’d touched upon Kain’s essence -- that blissful and ineffable momentary sense of oneness, of completeness, of balance. This was far wilder, more verdant, the tumultuous cacophony of every living thing that flew or ran or squirmed deep in the bowels of the earth beating through his veins in a single hot instant.

Raziel's throat was frozen in another soundless cry as the power of the Nature Guardian washed over him--and the power of the purified wraithblade answered, echoing it from across time. It was too much; just as it had been in the shrines, Raziel found himself transfixed, blinded and saturated by the intensity of the elemental power pouring through him, all bound up in the wave of their climax.

Slowly, gradually, the tide subsided, their power subsiding back into its separate vessels. Blinking as he came back himself, Raziel found himself wanting to pant like a human, even as he still held them both out of the water with trembling limbs. Turning his head, he brushed his mouth lightly against Ziliah's nape--his earlier bite having already healed. "....thank you," he said hoarsely.

Ziliah did pant like a human, her heart thundering as she slowly regained control of her limbs. Even still, her body still clenched down from time to time, rippling in exhausted overstimulation, around Raziel’s cock. At the words breathed against the back of her neck, she exhaled a soft sound that could have been a few words, evidently still too lost to recall which language Raziel used. After a handful of moments, she moved, trying to twist herself around. Supported by Raziel’s arms, she went nowhere until he assisted her, helping her draw herself off Raziel’s organ and turn to cling to him, arms around his neck, head pillowed on his shoulder. Her wings wrapped and enfolded them both, damp black feathers soft against Raziel’s half-folded wings. Even in the steaming water, she shivered a little, as if from shock. “You mentioned... before that...” she managed, after a time, “wings such as mine were not in your age. Does that mean... by your time, all of us have been freed to return to the Wheel?”

Holding her, Raziel did not answer right away. Closing his eyes, he absorbed the living warmth and scent of her skin, the feel of her feathers, enclosing him. How could they just throw this away? If they only knew ...

"... there was only one left, by my time," he finally admitted, his voice quiet. And I killed him. "The rest--had passed into legend long since." His grasp tightened a little. "Ziliah--there are many things I dare not speak of. But believe me in this ... hold on to your flesh, your life, for as long as you are able. Take what joy you can in it, for as long as you may." For even her death would not release her to the Wheel--only his arrival, some thousands of years later, would do that.

Ziliah closed her eyes. “We have no other choice, as Guardians,” she said after a time. “But to know that day will come, eventually, even for us... thank you,” she whispered, breathing the words against Raziel’s water-warmed skin, nestling close with utter contentment.

How ironic, that she should thank him for condemning the remaining Guardians to a meaningless Wheel ... but he had said what he could. At least her ignorance brought her comfort ... Raziel sighed. He would have to be content with that.

After a time, he finally stirred. "We should probably leave the water," he murmured. "If nothing else, I would not like to meet the others in my current state."

Ziliah snickered softly. “Indeed, on both accounts. Some few of the Guardians do have an unhealthy affection for ceremony. They might find your arrival in the nude... confounding, to say the least.” Reluctantly, she released him, and swayed a little as she stood on her own, dragging her wings through the water to refold them tightly at her back. She moved to the edge of the pool, and pushed herself out of the water, sleek and dripping as a seal. “Come, do you hunger?” she asked, pushing sheets of water from her skin with her hands as she went to gather a dry towel, perhaps a little unsteadily.

"Not to any great degree, though I certainly would not be churlish enough to refuse sustenance if it were offered," Raziel replied easily, also hoisting himself out of the pool. The chill of the air after the heated water and their exertions was enough to chase away the last dregs of lassitude, and Raziel mimicked her, skimming off what water he could with his palms before extending his wings and shaking them vigorously, stray droplets splashing down upon the carvings in the stone floor.

Ziliah removed a great sheet of fluffy, dry fabric from the niche, then picked up the goblets and the sealed flask. “This way, if you please,” she said, leading Raziel into a chamber that abutted the bathing area. There seemed to be a faint... pressure, or resistance, as they passed through the archway. The steam-laden air cleared, abruptly heated as if they had passed into the center of a great desert. A breeze circulated, fluffing Ziliah’s feathers as she spread her wings for the dry air. An assortment of low benches, tables, and a scattering of books suggested that Ancients often spent a fair amount of time thoroughly drying themselves. Robes hung on the wall.

The Nature Guardian offered Raziel a low-backed chair, then uncapped the flask and filled both goblets, before kneeling before him with the towel. “Knowing Shamgar, he’ll arrange to have the Time Guardian join us shortly,” she said, running smooth, sky-blue fingers down Raziel’s calf, wiping the clinging moisture from his skin with the absorbent fabric. She lingered at his cloven, hoof-like feet, clearly curious. “As for any other pomp or ceremony the others wish to inflict upon you -- you may stand for it or not, with no harm done.”

Accepting the goblet gratefully, Raziel sat, half-spreading his own wings to let the membranes dry in the air. As he did so, he reached out and ran talons lightly over the drying feathers of one wing, fascinated at how the colors shifted. "I am grateful for your guidance--but surely it is beneath the Nature Guardian to act as a servant?" he asked curiously as she continued to dry his feet.

Ziliah arched her wing for the inspection. “When the Pillars chose their Guardians, they did so very much without guidance,” she said, a sly sparkle in her eyes. “Elon, the Time Guardian, was a... perhaps ‘pageboy’ is the best word in this language. I was a hardwood forester, in the tropical belt of the far continent. Neither of us were of any particular status. Our appointments maddened some few of the elders no end.” She tilted her head, studying the sharp edges of Raziel’s feet, then moved up, using an unwetted part of the towel to very gently dry his thighs, waist, and groin. She hummed thoughtfully. “In any case, it would not matter -- you are beyond rank. Remember that, if you find yourself being dragged to attend too many unwelcome ceremonies.”

Raziel chuckled. Both the ministrations and Ziliah's company had put him in an exceedingly good humor, and he knew well the hazards of interminable ceremonies ... Kain had not been overfond of them, but as his empire had grown, so had the need for ranks, ceremony and ritual, especially among the lesser vampires. "I shall, and thank you. It shall be interesting to meet this pageboy turned Time Guardian." Given that the only other Time Guardian he had known had been Moebius, that scheming pawn of the Elder God, he could only hope that this one was a great deal more congenial to deal with--not to mention more forthright.

Ziliah was more than pleased to be of assistance. She took her time drying them both off, then perused the robes hanging on pegs on the wall. She shrugged into a plain white set, the back of the garment cleverly arranged to permit for wings, before selecting the sole robe in bloody crimson. “This one, I think,” she said. “Your armor and other accoutrements are likely cleaned and already in one of the upper guest chambers, or shortly will be,” she said, offering the garment.

Raziel took the robe, and began to shrug it on--then soon discovered that the clasps and ties of the garment were more complex than they had first seemed. "I am afraid I am going to need your guidance in this as well," he said wryly, trying to discover exactly how the crimson robe was supposed to drape over his wings without fouling them.

Ziliah covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s, ah. That is because you are endeavoring to put your arm through the wing hole,” she said, clearly trying not to break into laughter. “Here, wait, this part goes on first....” Her hands made easy work of the tangle. She smoothed a strip of fabric down between his wings -- hands smooth and gentle on the spars as she adjusted the limbs -- and then helped him shrug into the more recognizable part of the robe, at last belting the whole thing with a wide strip of fabric, thickly embroidered in gold thread. “There,” she said, smoothing her palms over him, admiring. Raziel did cut a fine figure. A click of talons on the tile announced an arrival in the landing-area, just through an archway near Raziel. “What do you think, Elon?” Zilliah asked.

Perhaps ‘pageboy’ was not quite the right word, for Elon was of a height with most other adult Ancients, though more slender than they, perhaps even to the point of gawkiness. The red and gold crown his spirit had once worn in the underworld dimension was nowhere to be seen, but he was dressed similarly, in teal and purple, though this time his clothing was in some disarray. His wings looked curiously ungroomed -- or rather, perhaps still tufted in occasional places with fledging-down. “Janos dit a moi, mais...” the young man breathed in awe, though clearly not at the clothing in particular.

Ziliah tsked. “Human dialects only, didn’t Janos tell you?”

Taking in the sight of a not-quite-fledgling Guardian, Raziel gave him a polite bow. "I am pleased to meet you, Elon. Ziliah has told me of you and your guardianship." The robe shifted as he straightened, and after so many centuries of wearing leathers and armor, he found the sensation of the fine, loose fabric shifting over his skin strange--pleasant, but strange.

He glanced at Ziliah. "Should we adjourn somewhere else? I have many questions, and there is no point in inconveniencing either of you unnecessarily."

Elon awkwardly returned a deep bow. “And I am pleased to meet you. I’d be honored to offer what answers I can.” The Time Guardian looked as if he were attempting to repress his excitement enough to maintain some degree of decorum, and was managing a poor job of it. “I brought some of the most major records of prophesy, but we can also....”

Ziliah raised a hand, stopping him. “Let me escort the two of you to rooms up above, where you’ll be comfortable,” she said, smoothing one last crease in Raziel’s robe, and then leading the pair of them out to the air vent by which they had arrived. Though she did not admit as much, it was quite possible that certain parts of the conversation related to the timestream might not be suitable for the ears of the rest of the circle. Prophesy and future-sight could be cagy things. The Nature Guardian pumped her wings a few times, letting the uprising air fill them, and then glided upwards several levels, to land in another broad archway. This one lead to a hallway, which opened into a massive solarium, a great dome that afforded a superb view of the night sky, the star patterns wheeling above echoed by the tiles underfoot.

Doors to private suites were arrayed around the circle, many of them marked above with the glyphs of the individual pillars -- evidently, Guardians stayed here, when in residence. Huge, carved ebony statues of warriors stood silent guard over the solarium. Zilliah plucked a small vellum note from where it was affixed to the closest door on the right. “It looks as if your armor has already arrived,” she said, pushing open the portal.

Following her in, Raziel took in the rooms beyond. The design was light and airy, as seemed to be the case with all the buildings of Ancient design, with more than enough room to spread one's wings outward. The doors were open archways, framed by intricate mosaic tiled designs that gleamed in the light, and his hooved feet clicked on smooth veined marble underfoot. There was also another broad balcony, framed by a low carved railing; most likely intended to be used for both relaxation and as another entrance.

His armor had been neatly laid upon a low table, not far from the antechamber. There were also a few chairs, made of dark wood and with low, oddly carved backs. "My companions--will they also be staying here?" Raziel asked.

Ziliah blinked. “Companions?”

Elon gave it a moment’s thought. “The darkmagic construction and that other one? They were in the courtyard with the leaping salmon fountain, when I flew over, with the Gera twins and, uh, some of the other ladies.”

Ziliah nodded. “Then they’ll likely be in the east guest chambers. Would you like them moved here?”

Raziel considered the offer. His first urge was to have Tarrant and Kain near to hand, for entirely different reasons--but they might be better served with separate quarters. At the very least, he knew they would not be pleased at being treated like mere lackeys, therefore ... "When I see them again, I shall ask if they wish to stay where they are or not," he said in answer, nodding at them both as he seated himself on one of the chairs. "They might find these rooms more inconvenient, in any case." Having to transform or teleport in and out of one's quarters could rapidly grow wearisome, after all.

"Again, you have my thanks for this." He waved a hand at the rooms, the cleaned armor, and at his companions. "I must confess we hardly expected such a welcome when we arrived ..." Being attacked upon his arrival into a new time was far more common thing than being honored and feted, in his experience.

Elon sighed, joining Raziel . “That was Hiram’s idea,” he admitted, perhaps rather oddly. Then he cleared his throat. “Err, I presume you arrived from an era in which you have completed all the trials and, uh...”

Ziliah, with a repressed smile, patted Elon on the shoulder in support, then excused herself.

Raziel blinked. "You knew we would arrive?" Then, after a moment, added, "Trials?"

Elon blew out a breath. “Well, no, not that you would come to this particular time. But we know the Divine Benefactor will cross over the threshold of the ages many times, before his task is complete. So the tools we build now, the fonts to elementally forge the Reaver, in case time blunts its present imbuing, have to last through the ages as well. To that end, those tools have to be guarded -- protected, so no one but the true Messiah may use them. Uhm... you know Kadar’s darkmagic fonts? They’re set up so as to be guarded by shadow-wraiths, usually. Other types of elemental forges are protected by arrays of huge stone blocks, or by traps, for example.” He seemed far more relaxed now, with Ziliah’s absence.

"Believe me, I know all too well," Raziel said dryly. In his opinion, they could have done with a few less stone blocks, but what was done was done, and as irritating as they had been, he had prevailed over them easily enough. "What can you tell me of these prophecies? The ones that led you to create the Reaver, and the fonts, and to expect--me?" For all he had been called messiah by others before, he still could not say the word himself without a profound sense of irony.

Elon clasped his long-taloned hands atop the table between them. “Before the raising of the pillars, the timestream was not truly accessible to us -- the Hylden were always better in such matters. Since then, however, the timestreaming chambers and devices, and the viewing pools, became more than merely theoretical applications. Our prophesies come from the viewing pools, and in large part, confirm the Hylden writings. One has to be delicate with the interpretation; the pool’s images are only applicable to one possible future, so they may appear to be false.”

"Possible future? I had been led to believe that the progress of time was immutable, save for certain, exceptional circumstances ... ones that involved the Reaver," Raziel said with mild confusion. "Have you seen other futures that might be? Is time more fragile than we had thought?"

“No, it is not, in any manner fragile, perhaps to our dismay.” The Time Guardian opened a small drawer in the table, and withdrew a sheet of vellum and a thick-barreled writing implement, broad enough for his talons to grasp. He quickly sketched something like a tree in winter, with a central trunk, that divided into two branches, those branches likewise dividing further and sometimes rejoining, further up. The network of fine divisions stretched up the length of the page, but rather than spreading out, the twigs became a tightly-confined river of possibility. “If this is the pillars’ creation, here,” he said, pointing to the trunk, “then we are perhaps here in time.” He drew a mark on one of the branches. “Yet some of the recorded prophesies occur only upon possibility lines we shall never reach,” he said, marking the opposite branch. “And some possibilities, such as a cure for the Curse, are never to be found within the prophesies at all,” he said, marking a place outside the river altogether.

"I see," Raziel said thoughtfully. It made sense. If Kain's choices, and his own, had not merely created new futures, but simply moved the flow of time from one branch to another .... "How then is it that the Reaver can change these possibilities, then?"

Elon shook his head. “The Reaver does not -- or so we believe. The timestream is very... permissive, for lack of a better word. Even if timetravel were common -- and it is my task to ensure that it is not -- most individuals would only be capable of making changes within the bounds of this set of possibilities, this timestream. You can throw a thousand thousand stones into a river, and never change its course, do you see? But when placed in the hands of a creature with truly free will, at precisely the right time and place... the Reaver can lift the timestream from its bed, and set it upon an unforeseen course.”

That must have been the Elder God's great gamble ... to have the Reaver created, to grant Raziel freedom from the fate decreed by its Wheel--all in the hopes of killing Kain and restoring its self-serving balance. Raziel could not help but wonder what the outcome of the timestream was to have been otherwise, if the Elder God had felt pushed to such a risky strategem ... but there was no way of knowing that now. It was irrelevant, besides, to focus on what might have been. Far better to focus on the outcomes before them now.

"That does not ... concern you? That a creature could exist unhampered by the will of your god? One destined to wield the Reaver, no less?" The question was deceptively casual. The Ancients' faith ran deep, and Raziel could not help but wonder if there was not some hidden resentments there because of it ...

Elon shook his head. “Even if your free will extends to exemption from God’s plan for the world, your making would not have been accomplished without His help.” That last was speculation. It was quite possible that most of the Ancients had a particular blind spot where their deity was concerned. The Elder God was simply infallible, and the Ancients would follow wheresoever he called, would weather the trial of this Curse as they had other trials -- and would return to the wheel with honor, when they could. “As His agent, your directives are likewise God’s.”

Raziel arched his eyebrows skeptically at that, but declined to argue. The Ancients' 'god' *had* been instrumental in his making after all ... in that, at least, they were correct. As to the rest--it would be cruel to attempt to persuade them that all their sacrifices had been for a lie, and Raziel could not open their eyes, in any case. Not as he had Kain's, at the end.

"So these prophecies, of the Reaver and of the messiah--they came originally from the Hylden? Did they foretell your war, as well?" That was one question that Raziel still did not have the answer to: was he destined to be the Ancients' messiah? Or the Hylden's? Or ... perhaps he was a messiah only for Nosgoth herself ....

Elon shook his head. “The Hylden never foresaw the Reaver, to our knowledge -- neither did we, until shortly after the Pillars’ creation. The Hylden foretold of a false champion centuries ago; but we know of you from our own divinations, in which you are inevitably and inextricably linked with the Reaver. As for the war...” the Time Guardian shrugged slightly. “I suppose it is possible they foresaw it, or its ravages. Certainly they had the Curse well-prepared by the time the Pillars reached completion.”

Raziel nodded soberly. "The Hylden are persistent enemies, even in my time. We had little knowledge of the threat they posed, until they had already cracked open the bonds of their prison and begun their assault. They are ...formidable indeed." They could be defeated, Raziel knew that much, at least. But any such victory would not come without cost.

Elon sighed. “I believe we stood little chance against the Hylden from the outset, though others may tell you differently. I was fledged during the war, and never experienced the highest glory of our civilization -- but I do know we were routed nearly every battle we engaged in. Yet we won the war, so to speak. I fear we merely bottled the crisis for your generation to resolve.” He paused in thought. “Shamgar could best advise you of the tactics that have proved successful against the Hylden in the past. But how else may we aid your endeavor?”

Raziel laced his talons together in front of him, and contemplated the bloody crimson of his robes for a moment. "Of preeminent importance are the timestreaming portals," he said thoughtfully. "If you could teach us how to use them properly in order to traverse time, to be able to arrive at the times and places of our choosing--that would be of incalculable value." He hesitated. "Has Janos spoke aught of our reasons for coming here?"

“Of course I will show you the workings of the timestreaming chambers,” said Elon easily, “though you should be aware that the timestream will theoretically not permit tampering in certain times and places -- spans of time may be simply inaccessible to you.” He shook his head. “Janos has not informed me of your reasons for visiting; only that they do not include taking up the Reaver.”

Raziel hesitated. Should he speak of his clan, and what he hoped would save them? Or should he wait, and allow Janos to broach the topic with the other Guardians? Arguments could be made for either case--ultimately, though, Elon's position as Time Guardian loosened his tongue. Without the assistance of the Pillar of Time, Raziel's plans would be for naught.

"Far in the future, my clan faces extinction," he said soberly. "For some time, I had thought this to be their inevitable fate ... however, we now find we need them to defeat the Hylden in an earlier time. I was not willing to use them and then return them to their time, only to die again--so we were searching for a time and place in history in which they might continue to exist relatively undisturbed." Raziel drew in a deep breath; he was unaccustomed to the feeling of being a petitioner. "We had not intended to bring them here, to trouble you--we happened upon this time by accident. But now ... perhaps you can tell me if the timestream would allow such a thing? Could my line--find a home elsewhen, or would they be ejected summarily from the timestream for their temerity?"

Elon’s eyes slowly widened as Raziel spoke. His talons tightened slightly on his writing implement, and his perpetually disarrayed feathers fluffed a little, as if in unease. He spoke after a few moments’ thought. “First, there would be no trouble involved. Any warriors returning from combat with the Hylden would be welcomed, no matter their providence. But what you propose to attempt... I do not know if it is possible. There were early attempts to send contingents of our own warriors forward in time, to better defend the Guardians as our numbers continue to decline. Those brave souls were lost, never to appear further in the records of prophesy, and I have come to believe they were cast from the timestream, as you describe.”

He cupped his talons across his chin. “As a free-willed agent, you should thus have a greater degree of latitude within a given timestream than ourselves, but... well. As to whether your clan could stay here safely, if you succeed in bringing them here... tell me, how great a time exists between this era, and the date you take up the Reaver?”

"Millennia," Raziel said simply. "It will pass through other hands long before it ever comes to me."

“And your... clan hails from roughly that era?” Elon asked, then paused. “I can at least tell you the following: our prophesies at present do not mention your arrival now, nor the addition of your brethren in the near future.” Elon laid aside his pen and clasped his talons. “I can envisage several reasons for this. Perhaps the most likely is that you do not succeed in bringing them back to this era -- they may be lost to the timestream or the Hylden, though this does not explain why we did not foresee your present visit.” Elon drew a slow breath. “It is possible that your clan will arrive hundreds of years from now -- our grasp of prophesy that far in the future can be quite tenuous. It is also possible that, if you have altered the course of the timestream in our future, we simply cannot foresee your influence upon our present.” Upon his sheet of vellum, Elon drew in illustration an alternate segment of timestream. Since the Ancients were upon the original stream, they could not view the changes wrought by Raziel, himself a product of an altered timeline.

Listening intently, Raziel gave a small sigh. "It appears then that I may simply have to take the risk. At least the fate they would face in another time is no worse than the one they currently face in their own." And he knew all too well how misleading prophecy could be; that, more than anything, let him continue to hope for a way to cheat death. He bowed his head before the younger vampire. "I thank you for your answers--at least it is better than flying blind."

“I wish that there were more answers and fewer suppositions,” said Elon, frowning. “When you are able to visit the timestreaming chambers, to learn more of their workings, we will see if you can make use of the viewing pools. Very likely, you will see nothing -- and you may see false or twisted versions of future events -- but you may find guidance as well.” Elon considered. “Will you permit your attempt to introduce your clan to be announced? Regardless of whether you succeed in bringing your clan to the present, I believe many among us would delight in preparing for their arrival.”

"Janos intends to do just that, I understand," Raziel replied. "He has--offered them sanctuary here, in this time. I am considering it--but I wished to know what the rest of your people desired before I made my decision. The Ancients have already suffered a great deal. To bring a new race of vampires here to--some might say--supplant them, though that was not my intention--it would be a cruel thing."

Elon frowned. “I don’t entirely understand what you mean. We will be supplanted by one of Nosgoth’s species in due course -- the Kuo-toa, perhaps, or the humans. It is the order of things. Your race is as immortal as we?”

Ah, of course. How could the Ancients know the origins of his clan? "We are," Raziel affirmed, choosing his words carefully. "We bear the same curse that was placed upon the Ancients. It was passed to the humans, who became vampires of a different sort. As the ages passed, those vampires changed, and grew in power--but remained immortal." He gave a tiny shrug. "In my time--vampires are made, not born. Even I was human once, though I have little memory of it." He waited for Elon's reaction to that revelation.

“Inheritors of the curse...” Elon shook his head. “Janos told me of your disclosure, that the humans would become guardians, and I see now why we must attempt to transmit the curse to those select few. But as to whether a race of immortals would find themselves truly welcome here...” Elon tapped his talons on the stone table, thinking. “You may wish to garner the opinions of others, but I believe they would, for two reasons. First, they are your brethren, and a majority of our own race would be compelled to honor them for that. Second, they are either immortal here or they are immortal elsewhen, wheresoever you leave them -- it makes no difference to the Wheel.”

"I hope you are correct ..." He glanced away, out through the open archway, gazing at the blue sky and verdant lands that lay beyond. If he brought the Razielim here; it would be very much like a paradise to vampires used to the harsh and barren landscape of Kain's empire. And he found ... he wanted that for them. "It would ease my mind greatly, to know they have a measure of peace, and sanctuary--for at least a while," he confessed. Nothing lasted forever, after all.

Elon watched Raziel. A faint breeze from the wide-open balcony stirred the occasional soft tuft of feathers. “That much, we can surely provide,” he said. If Raziel managed to bring them back. Yet... as much as Elon doubted that it was possible, he also knew that the before the Divine Benefactor, all laws might bend, even that of time itself.

They spoke more of the Chambers, and of the nature of the timestream. The sun fell to the horizon, and the city laid out below Raziel’s balcony slowly began to fill with activity -- Ancients flying or teleporting in from the surrounding area. At last a knock came at the door -- more of the Guardians, their expressions fascinated or anticipatory or, occasionally, guarded. It was going to be a very busy evening.


End file.
